


A Blade of Light

by Charon Spole (cascadingpoles)



Series: The Wheel Turns Anew [5]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-07 22:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 36
Words: 157,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20475965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadingpoles/pseuds/Charon%20Spole
Summary: The Stone of Tear has stood since the beginning of the Tenth Age, an unassailable fortress guarding the nation that shares its name. But nothing lasts forever, save perhaps for the Wheel of Time itself. And before the inexorable turning of the Wheel even the mightiest must yield, or be ground to dust.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> This is Book 5 of a series of fan-fiction novels set seven Ages after the end of the original Wheel of Time. The Wheel has turned full-circle and the events of the Third (now Tenth) Age have begun again, though they grow increasingly different as small decisions made differently prove to have far-reaching consequences, and the reincarnations of some perhaps familiar souls from other Ages exert their influence on the Pattern.
> 
> A lot of the chapters in it are copy-pasted from The Wheel of Time so I won’t post the whole thing here, for fear of bringing trouble to the site. Instead, I’ll post the most heavily edited chapters, along with the entirely new ones, and add a link for anyone who cares to download the whole thing from Mega.
> 
> Full version, with map and appendix, can be found here: https://mega.nz/#F!S7p2jQjS!gopOfwxqHC4WinfT4ay86A
> 
> Oh, and for those that are only interested in the smut scenes, or who would prefer to avoid scenes involving certain pairings or acts, I've included a spoiler-heavy file in the Mega download that provides a summary of all sex scenes and notes which chapter they can be found in.
> 
> Safer version begins on the next page. I hope you enjoy.

For the sake of neatness, the series proper will begin on the next page.


	2. Chapter 2

... Shadow of the past, Tyrant of the future. His own coming will he Herald and the Light itself will he carry, to shine the way to the new Age. Those who once ruled will be driven back, haunted by their triumph. Those who once served will be risen up, shamed by their glory. And they who waited, the faithful and the true, will reap the bounty of their works. And all the seas of the world will be theirs ...

—fragmentary text found in the Meridarch’s Library of Tanchico, attributed to Dyna din Gelyn Dreamsong, a Wavemistress of the Atha’an Miere.


	3. Grasping Hands

PROLOGUE: Grasping Hands

Though she would never have admitted it aloud, the opulence of Orlay filled her with wonder and desire. Cleanly carved and expertly placed stones made up the city, wood seemingly having been disdained as unworthy of the Valreio capital. It had not been so in the other towns and villages she’d ghosted through in this nation. Gold was everywhere here, in rich women’s houses, on the arrogant statues that posed in wide, paved squares. Even some of the walkways were decorated with golden metalwork; little, spiked things, looking almost like tiny soldiers standing in attendance on those who passed by. She couldn’t tell if they were real gold or just painted to look like it, not with these Valreio.

They didn’t stand attendance on her though, not while she prowled across the blue-tiled rooftops of the city, looking down unseen at the people beneath her in their ridiculous clothes with all those lovely fabrics, their bright colours drab in her eyes. Status, those clothes said. I have it and you don’t. Whether lie or truth, the message irritated her.

She would never be able to fit in among them. She knew that. It was no matter though, since she didn’t intend to stay long anyway. Information was why she had come. Precious knowledge. Education, she’d long known, was the truest path to power.

So she picked her careful way across the rooftops, heading in towards the centre of the city, where the most beautiful of all their beautiful buildings loomed: the Belshevi Palace, home of the Riela of Valreis and all her servants, great and small. If there was knowledge to be claimed in Orlay, she would find it there.

Armoured and masked soldiers guarded the streets below, armed with spears and swords, while bowmen watched from tall towers like gold-tipped spears stabbing at the indifferent sky. As expected, none of the men noticed her approach. She almost smiled, while imagining that they thought themselves wiser than she.

The Belshevi Palace sprawled across enough land to fit a dozen villages. There were smaller buildings scattered across the grounds, but it was the main palace that she was bound for. Two different sets of outer walls forced her to alter her approach until she could find a gate to slip through, while the too-neat gardens offended her eyes, if not her nose. Like the rest of the greenery in Orlay, it just did not look right to her.

She overheard a great deal more than any would have suspected as she drew closer to her goal, but whether the speaker was a maid dressed in a dull dress with an apron tied over it, or a rich lady, her shoulders made as broad as any man’s by the gown she wore, nothing they said was news to her.

They spoke of the false Dragon of Falme and his followers, and the Whitecloaks who fought them, with less interest than they did the latest scandal of a certain Lady Julia, who had presumed to send her daughter to the White Tower to be tested so soon after the Riela’s own daughters had returned in failure from the same test. Too soon, maids and ladies agreed. Je Fontaine apparently thought to cover her shame over the state of her city by trying to claim that there was an Aes Sedai in her family. Some wondered if she would lose her dominion over Fontaine as a result, for surely the Riela could not fail to respond to such an insult.

_ People are dying all over this accursed land, and this nonsense is what they occupy their thoughts with? _

The armoured men, at least, spoke of more pressing concerns, things that might affect their survival. But nothing they said suited her purpose. A Whitecloak named Valda was making a name for himself by cutting through swathes of Dragonsworn. One of the soldiers spoke admiringly of that, but another cut him off, demanding to know how he could praise a Whitecloak after they murdered good Valreio men at Fontaine. They argued back and forth, with the first man claiming that it had only been rogue Whitecloaks who did that, and that it would not be fair to condemn the whole organisation. They were enemies of the Shadow and the Dragon, after all. The second man grudgingly allowed that that was the most important thing, but wouldn’t concede the point, insisting that the Whitecloaks should be driven out of Valreis altogether.

She stopped listening to their prattle. They were no friends of hers.

_ Who is? _

The ground sped by as she lengthened her gait, but she couldn’t outrun that annoying little voice. The main palace rose in five layers towards a single, thick tower where, she assumed, the Riela would live. Airy balconies encircled each layer, backed by tall walkways, the thin pillars of which tapered smoothly into the roofs they supported. Few of those who loitered on the balconies or wander the walks looked armed. Pretty as it was, she found herself trying to sneer.  _ A ruler’s palace should be better defended than this _ . It was far too easy for her to bound from paving to handrail to window ledge to balcony. She scaled three layers of their palace in that manner, all without challenge.

It still took some time before she could sift through all the gossip and petty grievances and find a voice that was likely to give her what she wanted. To her surprise, the voice was not a stranger’s.

“When the Reidin takes the field, should I go with him?”

“Yes. He will need you to identify the false Dragon and his lieutenants,” said another voice, as feminine as the first, and sharing an accent, but older and wearier. Harder.

She sped towards the voices. Here at last was something that might help her. Reidin, so far as she understood, was what the Valreio called the leader of their army.

“If they are here. I say again, I do not think they will return.”

“Do you think madmen that predictable, Nightingale?” The speaker did not wait for an answer. “Whether he does or not, you will be there to look for him.”

There was a long pause, before “Nightingale” spoke again. “I see. And if I see something our mistress would not like?”

“Smile that pretty smile of yours. And if anyone asks, tell them how much you approve.”

They were not on one of the balconies, or in the walkways that led to them. They were farther inside, near the centre of that level. That didn’t stop her from hearing them clearly, of course. She kept close to the walls, and any who noticed her did little more than glance her way before going on about their business. When she reached the closed door to the room the speakers were within, she lay down beside it and curled up until her tail was touching her nose, pretending to be asleep. She couldn’t stop her ears from twitching though.

“How soon do we leave?” Leliana asked.

“I cannot say. As soon as it is decided that the Dragonsworn and the Children of the Light have hurt each other enough that our own forces will be risking few casualties by moving against them. There is still the matter of Lord Captain Bennett. His legion is mostly intact, and he has proven resistant to my agent’s efforts to guide him into attacking any of the Dragonsworn bands. I have an idea of how to motivate him, but you don’t need to know the details of it.”

“I will simply hope for your success then, Lady Briala.”

“It would have been easier if you had brought the Whitecloak back with you. I can see any number of ways he might have been used.”

“Galadedrid was ... very intent on his course. I do not think anyone could persuade him to change it,” Leliana said. “And I was not confident I could force the issue. He is quite the swordsman.”

“He was a man, wasn’t he? Don’t tell me you finally met one who could resist your charms? Even the false Dragon couldn’t do that. Or did he prefer the company of other men perhaps?”

“I ... didn’t try. The opportunity didn’t really present itself, and I ... wasn’t feeling quite myself after what happened with Rand. The false Dragon.”

Her ears rotated towards the wall behind her.  _ What’s this? _

“What do you mean?”

“After the seduction and the failed assassination, I was sure he would kill me,” Leliana said uncomfortably. “The mercy he showed left me a bit imbalanced. And I can’t say I cared for having Rinoa find me in the state he left me either. And I definitely didn’t care for the Inquisitor’s intentions!”

Briala grunted softly. “Well I hope you’ve put all that behind you. Selene will need us all at our best to deal with this crisis.”

“The Riela can count on me. I promise.”

“And if your merciful madman actually does prove to be with his Dragonsworn? Can she count on you then?”

“Yes. I will weep for him afterwards. I do not think him cruel. But that doesn’t change the fact that he must be stopped before his curse makes him hurt anyone else.” Leliana didn’t hesitate. That was what angered her the most, she who had hesitated and lost it all.

“Good. Good. Moments like this remind me of why you are one of our best agents, Nightingale. I hope to see more of them in the future.”

“Thank you.”

Slippered feet approached the door, sounding as loud to her ears as heavy boots might once have. It was an effort to remain in place, but running would have only aroused suspicions.

Leliana stepped out of the room, clad in a lovely gown with vines embroidered across the hem and chest, seeming almost to cup her breasts. A deliberate affectation, she did not doubt. Just as the friendly smile she’d once worn had been. The delighted look she gave her on realising her presence might well have been fake as well, but she resisted the impulse to scratch it off.

“Oh, who’s a pretty kitty? Are you lost, pretty kitty? There are no mice for you up here.”

Oh, how sweet she was, with her grey locks and her big grey eyes and her slender figure. Her loose legs. Her false smile. Even her pout was sickly sweet, when she got nothing back for her flattery save a languid stretch and a raised tail as she sauntered away.

_ Bitch. Traitor _ . The curses brought her no comfort. They woke too many pains of her own.

Once out of Leliana’s sight, she ran from the palace. Its beauty no longer called to her. The greenery especially. It was everywhere in Orlay, but it was not the work of nature. So carefully was it placed, never overgrowing anything, just decorating it. So prettily was it sculpted and posed. Fake. All fake. Like Leliana and the rest of this city. She couldn’t wait to be rid of it.

So. What had she learned, other than the fact that she was truly alone, without a single friend to be found in this place? Or even a Friend. War might well be coming between Valreis and Amadicia. That told her nothing she hadn’t already known. She couldn’t stay here, and she would be a fool to go there. Rand had left for parts unknown. And he had forgotten about her, having filled his bed with another woman already. That hurt so much that she was glad of the stiff, unreadable feline face that she now wore. She was a fool. She was everything she’d once despised. A weak, simpering fool who’d placed another’s needs ahead of her own.

If only she could have explained. But he would never have understood. Or forgiven. They were born to be enemies, no matter how right it had felt to be lovers. Yet, if he was her enemy, then what did she have? Nothing. She was despised of both the Shadow and the Light now.

Her thoughts in turmoil, she made her way back to the tavern from which she’d begun her scouting. It was a much cleaner establishment than she had come to expect such watering holes to be, but the storeroom in whose window she slipped was as plain and dusty as could be. Anger made her claws rake against the wooden floorboards as she stalked over to where she had left her clothes.

Once sure she was alone, she began the transformation. It hurt, as always, but only briefly. A quick, all-encompassing pain that she could only characterise as rejection. She rejected the form of the cat with all her being, and embraced the form of a woman instead. There was no twisting of limbs involved; the black fur that had coated her body did not retract, her paws did not become hands, she did not grow to ten times the size she had been. She was a cat. Then there was pain and a blurring of the world around her. Then she was a woman again. All in the passage of a few moments.

Blinking her eyes, Morrigan struggled to adjust to the change. The return of colour to the world didn’t brighten it exactly, for everything around her looked suddenly less focused as well. It was ... different, but not necessarily better. The muting of sound was worse. It just emphasised her isolation.

“Get used to it,” she told herself. “Stop sighing over what might have been, and deal with what is. Survive.”

Unaccustomedly intolerant of her nudity, she snatched her clothes from the floor and began to dress hurriedly. Where could she go? Was there anywhere that the Shadow could not find her, or the where the Light would not reject her? In her heart, the woods called. Safety could be found there. And isolation. That would be good, but ...

As she pulled her stockings out of the pile of clothes, the hand mirror she’d left cushioned among them was exposed. It was such a pretty thing. The kind of treasure you would never find in a forest. She stared down at it.  _ Is that my face? How plaintive I look! _ She forced a scowl instead. She hadn’t known why Rand had left it at Tarcain Cut, hidden where none but she might find it. What message he’d intended was beyond her ken. Perhaps now she knew. Perhaps it was goodbye. Or good riddance. Perhaps he’d been telling her that he was moving on to other women. That he’d been a fool to say those terrible, terribly exciting, terribly fearful words to her. That she’d been a fool to love him.

“I told him that before!” Morrigan growled. “I warned him it was madness. Why didn’t I listen to myself?”

The wooden barrels that were her only company gave no answer. She’d have to find her own. And perhaps that was as it should be. She could only think of two paths she might follow though, both of which offered things she desired. Neither of which offered all she needed.

_ So which to choose? And what to sacrifice? _

* * *

They hated her. She knew it. And they knew she knew it. But she took no steps to defend herself, and they did not dare to attack. Liandrin allow herself to smile as she strolled through the halls of the Stone of Tear. That, so far as she was concerned, was power. Her power. The power she’d always known was her destiny.

The Tairens who watched her pass, from the Defenders of the Stone with their burnished armour strapped over black and gold coats, to the High Lords and High Ladies, each competing to see who could dress the most ostentatiously, did a poor job of hiding their disdain. High Lady Alteima puffed out her chest as though the bulging of her dressfront was in some way significant, High Lord Hearne tugged at his ear while scowling at her out of the corner of his eye, and High Lord Darlin looked down his long nose at her while frowning forbiddingly.

Liandrin didn’t respond to any of them, but she noticed them. Oh yes, she noticed. Their names were added to the long list she kept in her mind, a list of all the people who had ever slighted her. Every last name on that list would come to regret their arrogance, when the time came. The heady realisation that the time was coming so much sooner than she’d dreamed had almost made her happy.

If only the coming of that time did not mean she had to put up with even more people who thought themselves better than her.

“I wonder how he cows them,” her companion Marillin mused quietly. “They do not know what he is, but they know what we are—some of it, at least—and would not normally allow us access to their precious Stone. I wonder what he did to make them accept the will of a newcomer.”

“Examples. Screaming and bloody examples, or quiet and deniable ones. The effect is the same, yes?” Liandrin shook her head over the other Aes Sedai’s trivial interests. She was sure she could have done as much as “High Lord Samon” had, if she’d ever needed to.

She didn’t like being reminded of the man they’d been sent to ... to assist. His name was not on her list, not because she didn’t dare put it there, but simply because his haughtiness hadn’t extended to insulting her. That was all. She’d have marked him otherwise, no matter who he was.

He was probably in the Heart of the Stone now, staring at that blasted sword. That was where he spent most of his time. Waiting, planning, staring. He showed surprisingly little urgency. Power did not come to those who sat around and waited for it to be given them. It came only to those who reached out and seized it, and fought to keep it every moment of every day. Yet their temporary commander behaved as though this so obvious truth was not in fact so, as though he had all the time in the world to get what he wanted. In her heart, Liandrin scorned him. She didn’t let it show, of course. Not because she feared him—never that!—she simply didn’t wish him to be aware of his mistakes.

They found Riana and Berylla waiting for them by the archway that led to the Heart of the Stone. The scrawny Illianer had gotten some particularly hostile looks from their hosts. The fools seemed to think her nationality more important than the fact that she was Aes Sedai! It was Rianna that Liandrin found herself looking askance at though. She was not one of the stronger channelers among those of the Black Ajah who had left Tar Valon with her on this assignment, but the former White was as cold and as deadly as a Borderland winter.

Liandrin had no use for Warders, or for men in general, but she knew that most Aes Sedai came to see some manner of value in those they bonded to. As a member of the Red Ajah—and she still thought of herself as Red, in some ways, despite it all—as a Red she had, of course, never bonded, but Rianna had been White. Her Warder had been named Tsuki. No friend of the dark he. When he learned of their allegiance he had tried to kill Rianna, knowing that it would mean his own death even if he’d succeeded. He’d failed. And whatever value Rianna had seen in him, whatever had made her choose to bond the fool in the first place, hadn’t stopped her from releasing his bond and using her Talent for Blood Boiling to kill him. Slowly and painfully.

Rianna had won the respect of the Black Ajah for that. She’d even won a little from Liandrin, if only a little. Her pale skin, and the white streak in her dark hair, suited her well. The woman had icewater in her veins.

The other two fell in with her as she entered the Heart, saying nothing. Berylla was a miser with words. Like most Blues she thought them capable of moving nations, so she hoarded them to herself and used them with utmost care. Liandrin despised her, and would have despised her even if she was not so weak. Such delusions deserved to be scorned.

As predicted, the man who called himself High Lord Samon was waiting for them in the centre of the great chamber, standing with his hands clasped at the small of his back, dressed like the Tairen noble he claimed to be, surrounded by thick columns of red stone, and faced by a floating sword seemingly made from fine crystal. It was no sword though. It was a  _ sa’angreal _ , one of the greatest inventions ever made, an object capable of magnifying someone’s ability to channel. Liandrin would have done anything to possess a  _ sa’angreal _ of her own. It was just a pity that this one was useless, sealed away behind an ancient ward and—worse!—only usable by a male channeler. It was a struggle not to shudder at having it so near.

Still, she could understand why he was so obsessed with it. If not why it would make him so arrogant as to keep his back turned to them when they drew close.

“The piper has played his tune long enough. The children are coming,” he said, sounding amused about something. Liandrin refused to respond.

Marillin was an easier mark. “What do you mean, Great Master?”

“I mean that you must ensure that your ... friends keep a close eye on Tear, city and nation. I will want to know of any arrivals.”

“It will be done,” Marillin agreed, with disgraceful haste. He might be ... what he was, but he was still just a man.

The man who called himself High Lord Samon turned his head to the side and studied her with one dark eye. It was old, that eye, older even than the white hair of its owner implied. It knew far more than she liked. Liandrin called on her training in Tar Valon, and smoothed her face.

“If and when an arrival occurs, what contingencies would you like us to enact?” Berylla asked, dour-faced and practical.

He gave her a slight nod, and began to assign tasks. Unbeknownst to anyone, Liandrin seethed. That nod to Berylla had been as much as a slap to Liandrin’s face! Even one of the Chosen should have known better than to do that. While she listened to his plans, she made a few of her own, ones that the old man was unlikely to enjoy.


	4. Questioners

CHAPTER 1: Questioners

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Tenth Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Sea of Storms. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was  _ a _ beginning.

North the wind raced, far above the reach of the Fingers of the Dragon. It swept above the great fortress called the Stone of Tear, a fortress that had stood inviolable for three thousand years, a fortress it passed over with utter indifference. What human glory could not stop, nature’s glory did. The towering range called the Mountains of Mist had seen much of struggle and conflict in pasts both recent and ancient. The wind, too, failed to break them. North and west the wind turned, following the curves of the great river that men called the Arindrelle. It swept above lands both populous and deserted, going ever northward as the river narrowed and the land rose into hills, until suddenly it veered to the west and howled down upon a herd of horses and their colourful riders, women all, led by a slender woman of medium height, whose downturned mouth made stubbornly stern her youthful features, and whose long brown braid remained clutched in her fist no matter how the wind tugged upon it.

Nynaeve al’Meara leaned forward in her saddle as she forged ahead through the foul weather. It would take more than a little storm to give a Theren woman pause but if it kept trying to pull her cloak off her, she might just see how it liked a little taste of  _ saidar _ . She held to her anger every bit as tightly as she held to the One Power, for the one would not come without the other. At least, not for her. Her companions suffered under no such handicap.

She narrowed her eyes but refrained from looking back at the women trailing along behind her. They were a long way from Tar Valon now. Nesum shouldn’t be more than a day’s ride away. There would be a boat waiting there to take them all to Tear. Or almost all of them. The Black Ajah—Aes Sedai who had betrayed the Light to serve the Shadow—had fled to that far-off city. The Amyrlin Seat had ordered them to be laid low for their crimes, and charged Nynaeve with seeing it done. She’d charged her with seeing to another matter, too, one that Nynaeve had given careful thought to all throughout their long ride east. Careful thought! Not “dithering”, no matter what that spoiled brat Elayne had said!

Muscles pulled against the reins, spooked by the sudden wind, but Nynaeve kept a firm hold of him. The horse was as much a fool as any human male. Most of them, anyway. The heavy signet ring Lan had given her still hung from its cord around her neck, a flash of gold amidst her otherwise plain clothing. She tried not to think about the ring or the man it belonged to, but it was hard sometimes. He intruded in her thoughts much more often than was proper. So did Rand, for that matter.

Tossing her head, though not at all like her mule of a mount, Nynaeve focused on the tasks ahead. She’d need to arrange to have the horses taken back to Tar Valon. It would be too expensive to get them shipped all the way down the Arindrelle to Tear. She’d have to make sure the captain of the ship they’d hired knew who was in charge, too. And she’d have to deal with Asseil. There wasn’t much time left to do it now, what with all the careful thinking she’d been doing.

She didn’t need to look back to know that there was still more than an hour to go before the sun reached the horizon, but she waited only until they reached the next dip in the path before turning Muscles aside from the road. The land at the foothills of the Oburun Mountains was sparsely wooded, and the ride would have been pleasant if the hills had just picked a direction, up or down, instead of constantly rising and falling like that. It did make it easy to find a good camping spot though, at least there was that.

“We’re stopping already?” Wynifred said, surprised. She was a nice girl, and very clever, but she liked things to be kept—and done—in a neat, orderly fashion. That included getting up at the same time every morning, and going to sleep at the same time every night. She had been struggling a bit since Nynaeve had dragged her out of her beloved library and gotten her involved in this conflict, something which Nynaeve felt guilty about. Not that she would ever have told the girl that, of course.

“Don’t be lazy, Wynifred. Just because it’s your turn to help set up camp is no reason to put it off,” she said sternly.

The girl blinked. “I ... I w-wasn’t ...”

Ever eager to be the hero, or to smooth over conflicts, Elayne swooped in. “I’m sure Nynaeve didn’t mean to imply anything negative, Wynifred. We all know how hard you work.”

While Wynifred shared Nynaeve’s colouring, Elayne had an altogether more exotic look, at least to Nynaeve’s eyes. Red-gold curls tumbled across her shoulders and framed her beautiful face, with its creamy skin and full, red lips. Her eyes were a darker shade of blue than Lan’s, bigger and much warmer. Ever since she’d met her, Nynaeve had known that Elayne would have a slew of admirers. She just hadn’t expected to find herself becoming one of them. Nor that she’d ever tell her that. Of course.

“If you’re done chatting, Elayne, we have work of our own to be doing. You’re not in your mother’s palace anymore, girl.”

Elayne closed her eyes, and Nynaeve had the odd feeling that she was counting silently. When she opened them again, a friendly smile was painted on her face. “You’re quite right. It’s a task that has been put off much too long, wouldn’t you agree?”

The tart response died on Nynaeve’s tongue when Elayne swung down from the saddle of her white horse to reveal the women riding behind her.

Asseil Moussa was nearly as exotically beautiful as Elayne. Her hair was pale, and woven into a multitude of thin, beaded braids after the fashion of her native Tarabon. She had brown eyes and her skin was tanner than Elayne’s, and she could have given the Daughter-Heir lessons in arrogance, shocking as that was. She was also quite possibly a Darkfriend spy.

Arrogant as she was, Asseil didn’t even notice the way Nynaeve was scowling at her, or wonder why. She just climbed down from her horse and began knuckling the small of her back. At least she wasn’t grumbling about the plainness of their dresses. Accepted of the White Tower were expected to wear white at all times, but wearing the same now would have made them far too easy to spot. Replacement clothes had had to be arranged, and Nynaeve wasn’t about to spend more of their budget on that than she had too. She was perfectly fine—happy even!—to dress humbly. The others would just have to get used to doing the same.

The real problem was that Asseil had been sent with a message, late in Nynaeve’s recruitment drive for this hunting party, a message she’d falsely claimed to have come from the Amyrlin Seat. It had directed Nynaeve towards Tear. Bait for a trap, obviously. And now she ignored Nynaeve’s scowl as though nothing was amiss. Fool.  _ Her, or you? _ a traitorous voice whispered.

Nynaeve tried to ignore it, but she could not. The simple fact was that she didn’t have any real evidence of Asseil’s guilt. She claimed not to have recognised the Aes Sedai that sent her with the message, or to have understood its context. Which might be true, or it might be that she was concealing the identity of her fellow traitor. The Amyrlin had left Nynaeve to decide which it was, and further charged her with dealing with Asseil should it emerge that she was, indeed, a Darkfriend. The thought of what that meant tied Nynaeve’s stomach in knots. She was a healer, not a killer.

The two Accepted that she’d assigned to keep an eye on Asseil throughout their journey from Tar Valon were made of sterner stuff than Elayne or Wynifred, and perhaps even sterner than Nynaeve herself, little as she liked to think it. They were also the two she trusted most, other than Elayne, of course. She’d even revealed to them her suspicions about Asseil, something she’d been keeping from the others.

Dani’s dark eyes met Nynaeve’s, and she nodded at whatever she saw there. Dismounting and handing her reins off to a startled Wynifred, the copper-skinned Domani led her paler pillow-friend, Ilyena, off in Asseil’s wake. It would have to be done tonight, Nynaeve knew. Whatever “it” was.

Nynaeve ignored Elayne too-patient look, and went to assign chores to her motley band. Since Wynifred was struggling with the horses so dramatically, she assigned Pedra, Calindin and Mair to help her get them all brushed down and hobbled. Mayam was a good cook, so supper was her job tonight, while the others were left to set up the tents. The task of collecting firewood she reserved for herself, Elayne, Dani, Ilyena ... and Asseil.

Like Nynaeve, Dani and Ilyena were the children of farmers, and voiced not a word of complaint as they picked their way through the woods. And despite having been born the heir to one of the most powerful nations in Valgarda, Elayne held her silence as well, something which surprised Nynaeve still, despite how long she’d known the girl and how close they had grown. Asseil though, Asseil complained of the discomfort and poor footing and dirt and cold every step of their journey away from camp towards somewhere more private. Nynaeve didn’t like the woman, but she was not so petty as to count that as proof of her guilt. After all, she hadn’t exactly been beloved of everyone in Emond’s Field, back when she was the Wisdom there. Some fools had even gone so far as to say she was loud-mouthed, curmudgeonly and a bully. As if!

“This will do,” she announced, when they stepped into a secluded copse well out of hearing of the camp.

“Do for what?” Asseil asked guilelessly.

What was it Verin liked to say? Assume the worst, that way all your surprises will be pleasant ones. Nynaeve resolved herself not to go easy on the woman. She made her voice hard. “It’s time for us to have a little chat about your Black Ajah friends, Asseil. I want to know everything you know about them.”

The Taraboner reached for  _ saidar _ , but Elayne was ready for that. A shield slid between her and the True Source before she had time to do more than raise her nose in the air.

“Don’t make things harder for yourself,” Dani said coldly.

“Or do. It’s all the same to me,” Ilyena added with a sharp smile. Both women had embraced  _ saidar _ as soon as Nynaeve spoke. As angry as she was, she could see the haloes of light that surrounded all of them save for Asseil.

“How—!? How dare you!?” the girl spluttered, in what was either genuine outrage or a fine display of acting. Her already dark cheeks had darkened further, and her eyes were wide with anger rather than fear. Was that a good sign or not? The woman was probably too full of herself to realise the danger she was in.

“Cut the act!” Nynaeve said sharply. “I spoke to the Amyrlin before we left. I know that message you brought us didn’t come from her. You lied. Inveigled your way into our company. Why? Who put you up to it? Talk and I might be merciful.”

“Merciful?” Asseil blinked around at the circle of women that surrounded her, each of them stern-faced and hard-eyed. The colour that had rushed to her cheeks began to rush out again just as quickly. “I ... I just did what they told me to ...”

“You would prate of loyalty to the Shadow as though it were a virtue?” sneered Ilyena, who was a Borderlander from Volsung, far out to the west.

“I’m not a Darkfriend!” Asseil insisted. “An Aes Sedai gave me that note, she said it was from the Amyrlin and I was to give it to Nynaeve al’Meara. I just did what she said! How was I supposed to know it was fake?”

“I want to believe you, Asseil,” Elayne sighed. “It would help if you would describe this Aes Sedai for us. Then we could be certain you weren’t protecting her ...” There was sympathy in her voice, and knowing her it was probably not just put on for the other woman’s benefit either.

Asseil wet her lips with her tongue before speaking. “I didn’t see her face. She kept her hood up.”

“Then how do you know she was an Aes Sedai?” Nynaeve demanded. All the Aes Sedai’s faces took on an ageless quality after having used the One Power for a certain amount of time. None of her companions’ faces had changed in that way yet, but they were all still only Accepted, the rank below full Aes Sedai in the White Tower.

“She had the ring!” Asseil said, brandishing her own. “And it wasn’t on this finger!”

Nynaeve grunted. Accepted were all given a golden ring in the shape of the Great Serpent, a ring they were obliged by custom to wear on the third finger of their left hands. Aes Sedai kept the ring, but could wear it on any finger they pleased.

“Surely you can describe her better than that,” said Elayne. “Which Ajah did she claim allegiance to? How tall was she? How heavy? Did she have a recognisable accent?”

“She was a Taraboner, I know that much. From Tanchico, like me. She was about Nynaeve’s height, but I couldn’t guess her weight; her clothes were too loose.”

“That’s a whole lot of nothing,” Dani muttered. Nynaeve was of very average height for a woman, and Tarabon was a populous nation. A lot of Aes Sedai had been born there.

Ilyena nodded agreement. “She tries to sell us a handful of snow.”

“Tell me more,” Nynaeve said. “I’m starting to think you’re as much a Darkfriend as this phantom Taraboner of yours ...”

“You’ve been in the Tower nearly as long as I have,” Dani added. “Are we supposed to believe you can’t tell one sister from another, even if it was only by their voice?”

Cold sweat was beading Asseil’s brow by then. “I’d never spoken to this one before,” she said weakly. Elayne sighed in disappointment, and the pillow-friends folded their arms beneath their breasts, somehow mirroring each other’s censorious looks despite the many differences in their appearances.

When the moment had drawn out too long for comfort, Nynaeve spoke again. “Is there nothing else you have to say for yourself?”

A moment’s furious thought passed before Asseil raised her finger as though she’d had a sudden idea. “She copied the Amyrlin’s handwriting! Not many people can do something like that. Couldn’t you use that to find her?”

Nynaeve exchanged looks with Elayne. “If only it was that easy,” she muttered. She could wish a lot of things were easier than they actually were.

“Look, I’m not a D-Darkfriend, I swear! There’s no need to ... to use the One Power o-on me,” Asseil stammered.

_ Burn me! This is so much harder than I thought it would be _ , Nynaeve thought. Only an effort of will kept her from hugging herself or shuffling her feet.

“In such a situation, my mother would—”

“I don’t want to hear any more about Queen Morgase,” Nynaeve said, cutting Elayne off. “She isn’t here. I am.” Little as she wanted to be. Ignoring the way Elayne’s chin rose, she scowled at the Taraboner woman, who was looking much less self-assured than usual now. “And there isn’t enough here to condemn a woman,” she added, with a firm tug on her braid.

Elayne’s chin lowered enough to allow her to nod agreement. “Or to exonerate,” she added.

“So what do we do with her? Tie her up and leave her here? Take her with us?” Dani asked dubiously.

“Those are no answers. She’d be a potential knife at our backs either way,” said Ilyena. Of the four Accepted who surrounded Asseil, she looked by far the least sympathetic to the Taraboner’s situation. A hard woman, and cold, in Nynaeve’s estimation.

“We could have her watched,” Nynaeve said, with more uncertainty than she cared for.

“That would leave fewer of us to deal with the Black Ajah,” Ilyena pointed out.

“I know that!” Nynaeve snapped. “I’m in charge here, remember?” She was tempted to pull out the Amyrlin Seat’s writ again, and wave it right under the Volsuni’s nose.

“Then you should act like it,” she said coldly.

“Ilyena,” Dani said warningly.

Nynaeve tugged her braid again, then once or twice more for good measure. The worst of it was that they were right. Neither “solution” offered any real solution at all. If she killed Asseil she’d be killing a woman she had no way of knowing for sure was guilty. If she released her, she could tell the Black Ajah everything she knew about them. And if she took her to Tear, then she might stab them in the back as soon as she could.

“We’ll take her with us,” she announced at last.

Elayne let out a small sigh, while Ilyena’s lips became a thin line. It was Asseil who spoke though, her shoulders slumping in relief. “Oh, thank you! For a moment there ... you gave me quite the fright, I must say.”

Her suddenly friendly smile made Nynaeve scowl all the harder. That was just the way a Darkfriend might smile before they sold you and all your people out to their master. “Save it! I want your word that you won’t try to channel without my permission. And I’m going to have you watched every step of the way. If you do channel, or if you betray us to the Black Ajah—” she spoke right over Asseil’s hasty assurances that she wouldn’t “—then I’ll make sure that you are the first one to die.”

Turning on her heel, Nynaeve stalked off back towards their camp. She trusted the others to take care of Asseil, and her own thoughts were too much of a tangle to deal with the woman herself. She hoped she wasn’t making a terrible mistake. People’s lives depended on her here, just as they had when she was Wisdom. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

Elayne hastened to catch up to her, and then had the audacity to interlink their arms as they walked. Nynaeve looked at her in surprise. Just because they’d spent the night together once was no reason to be getting so forward. She opened her mouth to tell the girl so, but Elayne spoke first.

“I’m proud of you.”

Her words, and her dimpled smile, left Nynaeve choking on her own rebuke. That was no doubt why her throat suddenly felt tight.

They were still strolling along like that, arm in arm, when a figure in brown and grey rose from behind a bush standing by itself almost in front of them.


	5. Maidens of the Spear

CHAPTER 2: Maidens of the Spear

Elayne embraced  _ saidar _ before the scream was well out of her mouth, and she felt two of the three women behind her filling themselves with the Power, too. She released Nynaeve’s arm and stepped clear of her, ready to fight if need be.

Nynaeve simply stood there and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, a firm expression on her face, but Elayne was not sure whether that was because she was not angry enough to touch the True Source, or because she had already seen what Elayne was just now seeing. The person facing them was a woman no older than Elayne herself, if somewhat taller.

The woman looked dangerous, even though her hands were empty and she wore no visible weapon. Blue-green eyes and reddish hair cut short except for a narrow tail that hung to her shoulders; soft, laced knee-boots and close-fitting coat and breeches all in the shades of earth and rock. Such colouring and clothing had been mentioned often by her tutors; this woman was Aiel. And unarmed, a rarity for their kind by all accounts. With only a slight reluctance, Elayne released  _ saidar _ . This was plainly a diplomatic encounter, not a combative one, and it would not do to appear hostile.

Looking at her, Elayne felt a sudden odd affinity for the woman. She could not understand it. Yet even that feeling—almost of kinship—could not stifle her curiosity. She’d never met an Aiel before, though she had heard tales of Aiel having ventured out of the Waste in this past year, searching for a certain someone. Perhaps that was the source of the kinship she felt.

Her wry smile won her the Aiel’s attention. “My name is Aviendha, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel.” Her face was a beautiful stone mask, as flat and expressionless as her voice. “I am  _ Far Dareis Mai _ , a Maiden of the Spear.” She paused a moment, studying them. “You have not the look in your faces, but we saw the rings. In your lands, you have women much like our Wise Ones, the women called Aes Sedai. Are you women of the White Tower, or not?”

Elayne felt unease.  _ We? _ She peered about them carefully, but saw no stranger behind any bush within twenty paces. Dani and Ilyena were sharing suspicious glances between Aviendha and Asseil, the latter of whom they held shielded still. Neither of them had released the Source.

If there were others, they had to be in the next thicket, more than two hundred paces ahead, or in the last one, twice that distance behind.  _ Too far to threaten. Unless they have bows. And even then they would have to be as good as Rand with them _ .

“We are women of the White Tower,” Nynaeve said calmly. She was very obvious in not looking around for other Aiel. “Whether you would consider any of us wise is another matter. What do you want of us?”

Aviendha smiled. She was really quite lovely, Elayne realized; the grim expression had masked it. “You talk as the Wise Ones do. To the point, and small suffering of fools.” Her smile faded, but her voice remained calm. “One of us lies gravely hurt, perhaps dying. The Wise Ones often heal those who would surely die without them, and I have heard Aes Sedai can do more. Will you aid her?”

“I will help her if I can,” Nynaeve said slowly. “I cannot make promises, Aviendha. She may die despite anything I can do.”

“Death comes for us all,” the Aiel said. “We can only choose how to face it when it comes. I will take you to her.”

Two women in Aiel garb stood up no more than ten paces away, one out of a little fold in the ground that Elayne would not have supposed could hide a dog, and the other in grass that reached only halfway to her knees. They lowered their black veils as they stood—that gave her another jolt; Aiel only hid their faces when they might have to do killing—and settled the cloth that had wrapped their heads about their shoulders. These two were older women, though hardly old. They almost matched Aviendha for height and colouring, but both looked ready to use the short spears in their hands.

One of them handed Aviendha weapons; a long, heavy-bladed knife to belt at her waist, and a bristling quiver for the other side; a dark, curved bow that had the dull shine of horn, in a case to fasten on her back; and four short spears with long points to grip in her left hand along with a small, round hide buckler. Aviendha wore them as naturally as a court lady might wear her jewels, just as her companions did. “Come,” she said, and started towards a thicket to the north.

Elayne followed as calmly as she could. She suspected all three of the Aiel could stab her with those spears before she could do anything about it, if that was what they wanted, but though they were wary, she did not think they would.  _ And what if Nynaeve can’t Heal their friend? _ Dani and Ilyena’s refusal to release the Source was more comfort than she cared to admit.

As they headed for the trees, the Aiel scanned the land around them as if they expected the empty landscape to hold enemies as adept at hiding as themselves. Aviendha strode ahead, and Nynaeve kept up with her.

The silence was threatening to become discourteous, so she decided to make conversation. As ever, introductions were in order. “I am Elayne of House Trakand,” she said politely, “Daughter-Heir to Morgase, Queen of Andor.”

“I am Ayla, of the Lost Circle sept of the Chareen Aiel,” said the red-haired woman on her left.

“I am Lidya,” the woman on her other side said, “of the White Run sept of the Chareen Aiel.” Her hair was a darker shade of red than that of the other two, almost brown in fact, though her eyes were a very pale grey. Like them, she was a good-looking, if intimidatingly serious, woman.

Ayla and Lidya looked back at the other three Accepted; their expressions did not change, but she had the feeling they thought she was showing bad manners.

“I am Daniele Rulonir,” her Domani friend said. They seemed to expect more. “Daughter of Pegah Rulonir, of Arad Doman,” she added, a trifle uncertainly. That seemed to satisfy them, in a way, so Ilyena and Asseil followed suit. Elayne took it as a measure of Asseil’s recent fright that she didn’t add her title to the introduction.

“You are first-sisters?” Lidya seemed to be taking in all three of them. Elayne suspected she was misunderstanding the reason that Dani and Ilyena stuck so close to Asseil. And what did they think about how close she and Nynaeve had been standing, when Aviendha had appeared from out of nowhere? For that matter, what did Nynaeve think of it? And what did she? They hadn’t had a chance to talk about it during the ride west, what with there being so many listening ears around.

The other three Accepted exchanged confused looks before giving answers that were no less confused. “Yes,” Dani said, perhaps thinking they were referring to the Aes Sedai, who were customarily called sisters. Even as she spoke, Ilyena said “No.”

Lidya and Ayla exchanged a very quick look that suggested they were talking to women who might not be completely whole in their minds.

Elayne hastened to correct the misunderstanding. “First-sister means women who have the same mother. Second-sister means their mothers are sisters.” She turned her words to the Aiel. “We neither of us know a great deal of your people. I ask you to excuse our ignorance. I sometimes think of my companions as first-sisters, but we are not blood kin.”

“Then why do you not speak the words before your Wise Ones?” Ayla asked. “Lidya and I became first-sisters.”

Dani blinked. “How can you become first-sisters? Either you have the same mother, or you do not. I do not mean to offend. Most of what I know about the Maidens of the Spear comes from the little Elayne has told me. I know you fight in battle and don’t care for men, but no more than that.”

Elayne nodded; the way her tutors had described the Maidens to her had made them sound much like a cross between female Warders and the Red Ajah.

That look flashed back across the Aiel’s faces, as if they were not certain how much sense these women had.

“We do not care for men?” Lidya murmured as if puzzled.

Ayla knotted her brow in thought. “What you say comes near truth, yet misses it completely. When we wed the spear, we pledge to be bound to no man or child. Some do give up the spear, for a man or a child”—her expression said she herself did not understand this—“but once given up, the spear cannot be taken back.”

“Or if she is chosen to go to Rhuidean,” Lidya put in. “A Wise One cannot be wedded to the spear.”

Ayla looked at her as if she had announced the sky was blue, or that rain fell from clouds. The glance she gave Elayne and the others said perhaps they did not know these things. “Yes, that is true. Though some try to struggle against it.”

“Yes, they do.” Lidya sounded as though she and Ayla were sharing something between them. Aviendha hurried ahead, and they had to increase their pace to keep up.

“But I have gone far from the trail of my explanation,” Ayla went on. “The Maidens do not dance the spears with one another even when our clans do, but there are loyalties beyond that, which the pledges we made before the Wise Ones of our clan made formal. As is proper for first-sisters who are Maidens, we guard each other’s backs, and neither will let a man come to her without the other. I would not say we do not care for men.” Ayla nodded, with just the hint of a smile. “Have I made the truth clear to you Daniele Rulonir?”

“Yes,” Dani said faintly. She glanced at Elayne as though surprised by the failure of her teaching, but she could have been no more appalled by that than Elayne herself. Her tutors had sounded so certain of their knowledge, too. “The truth is quite clear to me, now, Ayla. Thank you.” Dani’s coppery cheeks had gotten a bit redder than was their wont. Elayne suspected her own had done the same. Asseil looked disgusted, while Ilyena smiled mockingly to herself, her gaze unfocused.

Lidya looked between Elayne and Nynaeve, whose back had a stiffness that said she’d been listening to every word. “If the two of you feel you are first-sisters,” she said, “you should go to your Wise Ones and speak the words. But you are Wise Ones, though young. I do not know how it would be done in that case.”

Elayne was certain there were spots of colour in her cheeks now. Sharing a man? She couldn’t imagine it. She’d never even kissed a man before, only other girls. She couldn’t help but picture Min naked in her bed, with an equally naked Rand lying beside her. They smiled at her as they reached out their hands in welcome at her approach ... Elayne cleared her throat. “I do not think there is a need for that, Lidya. Nynaeve and I already guard each other’s backs.”

“How can that be?” Lidya asked slowly. “You are not wedded to the spear. And you are Wise Ones. Who would lift a hand against a Wise One? This confuses me. What need have you for guarding of backs?”

Elayne was spared having to come up with an answer by their arrival at the copse. There were more Aiel under the trees, deep into the thicket, but next to the river. Three of the Aiel were male, one an older man with more than touches of grey in his dark red hair. They were tall, these Aielmen, and young or old, they had that calm sureness in their eyes, that dangerous grace of motion Elayne associated with Warders; death rode on their shoulders, and they knew it was there and were not afraid. Aviendha paused at the sight of them, as though surprised to find them there, and looked them over for a moment before saying “I see you” rather unnecessarily. She strode past them towards the pallet on which lay an injured woman of about her own age, who was being watched over by another, older Maiden. Aviendha introduced them and knelt at their side.

Cara, of the Stones River sept of the Goshien Aiel, a plain-faced woman with green eyes and red-gold hair nearly the colour of Elayne’s, was watching over Dailin, of Aviendha’s sept and clan. Sweat matted Dailin’s hair, making it a darker red, and she only opened her grey eyes once, when they first came near, then closed them again. Her coat and shirt lay beside her, and red stained the bandages wrapped around her middle, leaving her small breasts on display for anyone who cared to look.

“She took a sword,” Aviendha said. “Some of those fools that wetlanders call soldiers thought we were another handful of the bandits who infest this land. We had to kill them to convince them otherwise, but Dailin ... Can you heal her, Aes Sedai?”

Sparing a brief scowl for the men who, to their credit, were pretending not to notice Dailin’s state of dress at all, Nynaeve went to her knees beside the injured woman and lifted the bandages enough to peer under them. She winced at what she saw. “Have you moved her since she was hurt? There is scabbing, but it has been broken.”

“She wanted to die near water,” Aviendha said. She glanced once at the river, then quickly away again. Elayne thought she might have shivered, too.

“Fools!” Nynaeve began rummaging in her pouch of herbs. “You could have killed her moving her with an injury like that. She wanted to die near water!” she said disgustedly. “Just because you carry weapons like men doesn’t mean you have to think like them.” She pulled a deep wooden cup out of the bag and pushed it at Lidya. “Fill that. I need water to mix these so she can drink them.”

Lidya and Ayla stepped to the river’s edge and returned together. Their faces never changed, but Elayne thought they had almost expected the river to reach up and grab them.

“If we had not brought her here to the ... river, Aes Sedai,” Aviendha said, “we would never have found you, and she would have died anyway.”

Nynaeve snorted and began sifting powdered herbs into the cup of water, muttering to herself. “Corenroot helps make blood, and dogwort for knitting flesh, and healall, of course, and ...” Her mutters trailed off into whispers too low to hear. Aviendha was frowning at her.

“The Wise Ones use herbs, Aes Sedai, but I had not heard that Aes Sedai used them.”

“I use what I use!” Nynaeve snapped and went back to sorting through her powders and whispering to herself.

“She truly does sound like a Wise One,” Lidya told Ayla softly, and the other woman gave a tight nod.

Dailin was the only Aiel without her weapons in hand, and they all looked ready to use them in a heartbeat. Elayne tried not to be alarmed, but the recent failing of her lessons on the Aiel had given her cause to doubt she was as safe as she might have once expected.

“Do not be offended,” Asseil said suddenly, “but I notice you are all uneasy about the river. It does not grow violent unless there is a storm, and this close to the headwaters it is not very deep. You could swim in it if you wanted.” Asseil looked to Nynaeve after she’d finished speaking, as though checking to see if she’d noticed how helpful and nice and non-Darkfriendish she was being.

Elayne shook her head.  _ And here I am trying to be as diplomatic as possible. The self-absorbed fool _ .

The Aiel looked blank; Aviendha said, “I saw a man—a Shienaran—do this swimming ... once.”

“I don’t understand,” Asseil said. “I know there isn’t much water in the Waste, but you said you were ‘Stones River sept’, Cara. Surely you have swum in the Stones River?”

Was the woman mad? She had been nobly born in Tarabon, and had spent over a decade in the White Tower. How could she know so little of the Aiel? Or was she deliberately trying to sabotage them? Elayne narrowed her eyes.

The older Aielman looked at Aviendha, a slight surprise in his eyes. It was the first expression Elayne had seen him make, and she decided that, like Lan, for this man that flicker of the eyelids was the equivalent of another man’s open astonishment.

“They know little of some things, Rhuarc,” Aviendha said.

“I see it,” said the older man, smiling. He had a good smile, this Rhuarc, and a strong, square face; he was quite handsome, in fact, if a little old.

“Swim,” Cara said awkwardly. “It means ... to get in the water? All that water? With nothing to hold on to.” She shuddered. “Aes Sedai, before I crossed the Dragonwall, I had never seen flowing water I could not step across. The Stones River ... Some claim it had water in it once, but that is only boasting. There are only the stones. The oldest records of the Wise Ones and the clan chiefs say there was never anything but stones since the first day our sept broke off from the High Plain sept and claimed that land. Swim!” She gripped her spears as if to fight the very word. Lidya and Ayla moved a pace further from the riverbank.

“Oh,” was all Asseil said. She coloured when she met Elayne’s eye, and then took a sudden interest in the ground.

“I would never harm an Aes Sedai,” Aviendha said abruptly. “I would have you know that. Whether Dailin lives or dies, it makes no difference in that. I would never use this”—she lifted one short spear a trifle—“against any woman. And you are Aes Sedai.” Elayne had the feeling that the woman was trying to soothe them, which made her a rare bastion of good sense in the world.

“I knew that,” Elayne said, smiling at her in thanks. “No-one knows much of your people, but I was taught that Aiel never harm women unless they are—what did you call it?—wedded to the spear.”

Ayla seemed to think Elayne was failing to see truth clearly again. “That is not exactly the way of it, Elayne Trakand. If a woman not wedded came at me with weapons, I would drub her until she knew better of it. A man ... A man might think a woman of your lands was wedded if she bore weapons; I do not know. Men can be strange.”

“Of course,” Elayne said. “But so long as we do not attack you with weapons, you will not try to harm us.” All of the Aiel looked shocked, and she gave Asseil and the others a quick significant look.

Nynaeve lifted up Dailin’s head and began pouring her mixture into the woman’s mouth. “Drink,” she said firmly. “I know it tastes bad, but drink it all.” Dailin swallowed, choked, and swallowed again.

“Not even then, Aes Sedai,” Aviendha told Elayne. She kept her eyes on Dailin and Nynaeve though. “It is said that once, before the Breaking of the World, we served the Aes Sedai, though no story says how. We failed in that service. Perhaps that is the sin that sent us to the Three-fold Land; I do not know. No-one knows what the sin was, except maybe the Wise Ones, or the clan chiefs, and they do not say. It is said if we fail the Aes Sedai again, they will destroy us.”

“Drink it all,” Nynaeve muttered. “Swords! Swords and muscles and no brains!”

“We are not going to destroy you,” Elayne said firmly, and Aviendha nodded.

“As you say, Aes Sedai. But the old stories are all clear on one point. We must never fight Aes Sedai. If you bring your lightnings and your Balefire against me, I will dance with them, but I will not harm you.”

“Stabbing people,” Nynaeve growled. She lowered Dailin’s head, and laid a hand on the woman’s brow. Dailin’s eyes had closed again. “Stabbing women!” Aviendha shifted her feet and frowned again, and she was not alone among the Aiel.

“Balefire,” Ilyena said. “Aviendha, what is Balefire?”

The Aiel woman turned her frown on her. “Do you not know, Aes Sedai? In the old stories, Aes Sedai wielded it. The stories make it a fearsome thing, but I know no more. It is said we have forgotten much that we once knew.”

“No right!” Nynaeve snapped. “No-one has a right to tear bodies so! It is not right!”

“Is she angry?” Aviendha asked uneasily. Ayla and Lidya exchanged worried looks.

“It is all right,” Elayne said. “She is doing what she must.”

The glow of  _ saidar _ surrounded Nynaeve suddenly—Elayne leaned forward, trying to see what she did even though she knew it was pointless; she herself had no Talent for Healing—and Dailin started up with a scream, eyes wide open. In an instant, Nynaeve was easing her back down, and the glow faded. Dailin’s eyes slid shut, and she lay there panting.

_ Most impressive _ , Elayne thought without rancour. She was not sure she had even been able to make out all the many flows, much less the way Nynaeve had woven them together. What Nynaeve had done in those few seconds had seemed like weaving four carpets at once while blindfolded.

Nynaeve used the bloody bandages to wipe Dailin’s stomach, smearing away bright red new blood and black crusts of dried old. There was no wound, no scar, only healthy skin considerably paler than Dailin’s face.

With a grimace, Nynaeve took the bloody cloths, stood up, and threw them into the river. “Wash the rest of that off of her,” she said, “and put some clothes back on her. She’s cold. And be ready to feed her. She will be hungry.” She knelt by the water to wash her hands.

Cara put an unsteady hand to where the wound had been in Dailin’s middle; when she touched smooth skin, she gasped as if she had not believed her own eyes.

Nynaeve straightened, drying her hands on her cloak. That good wool did better for a towel than silk or velvet. “I said wash her and get some clothes on her,” Nynaeve snapped.

“Yes, Wise One,” Cara said quickly, and she, Ayla, and Lidya all leaped to obey.

A short laugh burst from Aviendha, a laugh almost at the edge of tears. “I have heard that a Wise One in the Jagged Spire sept is said to be able to do this, and one in the Four Holes sept, but I always thought it was boasting.” She drew a deep breath, regaining her composure. “Aes Sedai, I owe you a debt. My water is yours, and the shade of my septhold will welcome you. Dailin is my second-sister.” She saw Nynaeve’s uncomprehending look and added, “She is my mother’s sister’s daughter. Close blood, Aes Sedai. I owe a blood debt.”

“If I have any blood to spill,” Nynaeve said dryly, “I will spill it myself. If you wish to repay me, tell me if there is a ship at Nesum. The nearest town?”

“The town where the soldiers fly the White Flame banner?” Aviendha said. “There was a ship there when I scouted yesterday. The old stories mention ships, but it was strange to see one.”

“The Light send it is still there.” Nynaeve began putting away her folded papers of powdered herbs. “I have done what I can for the girl, Aviendha, and we must go on. All that she needs now is food and rest. And try not to let people stick swords in her.”

“What comes, comes, Aes Sedai,” the Aiel woman replied.

“Aviendha,” Elayne said, “feeling as you do about rivers, how do you cross them? The Alguenya is nearly as big as the Arindrelle, and it lies between here and the Waste. Unless you went around it?”

“You have many rivers, but some have things called bridges where we had need to cross, and others we could wade. For the rest, Ayla remembered that wood floats.” She slapped the trunk of a tall whitewood. “These are big, but they float as well as a branch. We found dead ones and made ourselves a ... ship ... a little ship, of two or three lashed together to cross the big river.” She said it matter-of-factly.

Elayne stared in wonder. If she were as afraid of something as the Aiel obviously were of rivers, could she make herself face it the way they did? She did not think so. She still woke in the middle of the night sometimes, driven from her sleep by nightmares of the Seanchan. She could only wish she was half the woman Aviendha was.

“We had best be on our way,” Nynaeve said.

“In a moment,” Elayne told her. “Aviendha, why have you come all this way and put up with such hardship?”

Aviendha shook her head disgustedly. “We have not come far at all; we were among the last to set out. The Wise Ones nipped at me like wild dogs circling a calf, saying I had other duties.” Suddenly she grinned, gesturing to the other Aiel. “These stayed back to taunt me in my misery, so they said, but I do not think the Wise Ones would have let me go if they had not been there to companion me.”

“We seek the one foretold,” Ayla said. She was holding a sleeping Dailin so Lidya could slip a shirt of brown linen onto her. “He Who Comes With the Dawn.”

“He will lead us out of the Three-fold Land,” Lidya added. “The prophecies say he was born of  _ Far Dareis Mai _ .”

Elayne was startled. “I thought you said the Maidens of the Spear were not allowed to have children. I am sure I was taught that.” Ayla and Lidya exchanged those looks again, as if Elayne had come near truth and yet missed it once more.

“If a Maiden bears a child,” Aviendha explained carefully, “she gives the child to the Wise Ones of her sept, and they pass the child to another woman in such a way that none knows whose child it is.” She, too, sounded as if she were explaining that stone is hard. “Every woman wants to foster such a child in the hope she may raise He Who Comes With the Dawn.”

“Or she may give up the spear and wed the man,” Ayla said, and Lidya added, “There are sometimes reasons one must give up the spear.”

Aviendha gave them a level look, but continued as if they had not spoken. “Except that now the Wise Ones say he is to be found here, beyond the Dragonwall. ‘Blood of our blood mixed with the old blood, raised by an ancient blood not ours’. I do not understand it, but the Wise Ones spoke in such a way as to leave no doubts.” She paused, obviously choosing her words. “You have asked many questions, Aes Sedai. I wish to ask one. You must understand that we look for omens and signs. Why do so many Aes Sedai travel together? Where do you go?”

“Tear,” Nynaeve said briskly, “unless we stay here talking until the Heart of the Stone crumbles to dust.” Elayne knew that tone. They would have to cut their chat short before Nynaeve had one of her explosions.

The Aiel women were looking at one another, Cara frozen in the act of closing Dailin’s grey-brown coat. “Tear?” Aviendha said in a cautious tone. “Fifteen Aes Sedai travelling through a troubled land on their way to Tear. This is a strange thing. Why do you go to Tear, Aes Sedai?”

Elayne glanced at Nynaeve.  _ Light, a moment ago they were laughing, and now they’re as tense as they ever were _ .

“We hunt some evil women,” Nynaeve said carefully. “Darkfriends.”

“Shadowrunners,” said one of the Aiel men, a hulking brute who could have matched Rand for height. He twisted his mouth around the word as if he had bitten into a rotten apple. Now that Dailin was decently covered, the men were no longer pretending an interest in the sky and had turned their hard-eyed attention on the newcomers.

“Shadowrunners in Tear,” Ayla said, and as if part of the same sentence Lidya added, “And fifteen Aes Sedai seeking the Heart of the Stone.”

“I did not say we were going to the Heart of the Stone,” Nynaeve said sharply. “I merely said did not want to stay here till it falls to dust.”

“We never attacked the Stone of Tear during the hunt for Laina, but I recall it well. It is a strong Hold,” Rhuarc said thoughtfully. “And if I recall the wetlander legends about it ...”

Aviendha was frowning at the older man. “Then Amys did not ask you to find me. That is good.”

Rhuarc chuckled richly. “No. My wife would not be pleased if I stepped between her and her quarry. She will want to skin you herself, Aviendha.”

It was hard to tell, given how inexpressive the Aiel were, but Elayne thought Aviendha looked embarrassed. If so, it did not show in her voice. “I did not expect to find any clan chief, much less my own, among those who came. Who leads the Taardad Aiel, Rhuarc, with you here?”

Rhuarc shrugged as if it were of no account. “The sept chiefs will take their turns, and try to decide if they truly wish to go to Rhuidean when I die. I would not have come, except that Amys and Bair and Melaine and Seana stalked me like ridgecats after a wild goat. The dreams said I must go. They asked if I truly wanted to die old and fat in a bed.”

Aviendha laughed as if at a great joke. “I have heard it said that a man caught between his wife and a Wise One often wishes for a dozen old enemies to fight instead. A man caught between a wife and three Wise Ones, and the wife a Wise One herself, must consider trying to slay Sightblinder.”

“The thought came to me.” He was frowning down at Nynaeve; or more accurately, at the heavy golden ring she wore as though it were a necklace. “It still does. All things must change, but I would not be a part of that change if I could set myself aside from it. Fifteen Aes Sedai, travelling to Tear.” The other Aiel glanced at one another as if they did not want Elayne and her companions to notice.

“You spoke of dreams,” Elayne said, her hand drifting towards the pouch where a certain ring of her own rested. “Do your Wise Ones know what their dreams mean?”

“Some do. If you would know more than that, you must speak to them. Perhaps they will tell an Aes Sedai. They do not tell men, except what the dreams say we must do.” He sounded tired suddenly. “And that is usually what we would avoid, if we could. Fifteen Aes Sedai, travelling to Tear. And one of them carries a ring I have heard of as a boy. The ring of Malkieri kings. They rode with the Shienarans against the Aiel in my father’s time. They were good in the dance of the spears. But Malkier fell to the Blight. It is said only a child king survived, and he courts the death that took his land as other men court beautiful women. Truly, this is a strange thing, Aes Sedai. Of all the strange sights I thought I might see when Melaine harried me out of my own hold and over the Dragonwall, none has been so strange as this. The path you set me is one I never thought my feet would follow.”

“I set no paths for you,” Nynaeve said sharply. “All I want is to continue my journey. We will be on our way now.”

“In the night, Aes Sedai?” Rhuarc said. “Is your journey so urgent that you would travel these lands in the dark?”

Nynaeve struggled visibly before saying, “No.” In a firmer tone she added, “But I mean to leave with the sunrise. Elayne, are you ready?” She started out of the thicket without waiting for an answer, her long strides carrying her south.

Elayne and the others made hasty goodbyes before following after her, but their goodbyes proved rather pointless, for the Aiel accompanied them back to their camp, with Aviendha carrying the unconscious Dailin across her shoulders as easily as she might a pail of water. More of them emerged as they walked south, until a good nineteen warriors surrounded the five Accepted. It occurred to Elayne that she’d need to give some kind of signal to the others, once they approached camp, lest they think they were under attack and do something precipitous.

Even with her reassurances, it took some time to get everyone settled. Aiel had a certain reputation, after all, and none of the Accepted were accustomed to being surrounded by strange soldiers, Aiel or otherwise. But Elayne managed it, with the welcome help of Dani and Keestis.

When dawn pearled the sky to the east the next morning, the Aiel produced a breakfast of tough, dried meat which Aviendha told her was goat, along with a flatbread that was almost as difficult to chew as the stringy meat, and a blue-veined white cheese that had a tart taste and was hard enough to make Elayne murmur that the Aiel must practice by chewing rocks. She ate as much as she was given though, for it would have the height of rudeness to do otherwise. The Aiel shook their heads over Lioness and the other horses, when the time came to continue on. They did not ride unless they had to, Aviendha explained, sounding as if she herself would as soon run on blistered feet.

The Aiel accompanied them afoot when they set out for Nesum, loping along easily alongside the horses. At first, Elayne tried holding Lioness to a slow walk, but the Aiel thought this very funny.

“I will race you ten miles,” Aviendha said, “and we shall see who wins, your horse or I.”

“I will race you twenty!” Rhuarc called, laughing.

Elayne thought they might actually be serious, and when she and the others let their horses walk at a quicker pace, the Aiel certainly showed no sign of falling back.

But when the thatched rooftops of Nesum came in sight, Rhuarc said, “Fare you well, Aes Sedai. May you always find water and shade. Perhaps we will meet again before the change comes.” He sounded grim. As the Aiel curved away to the south, Aviendha and Ayla and Lidya each raised a hand in farewell. They did not seem to be slowing down now that they no longer ran with the horses; if anything, they ran a little faster. Elayne had a suspicion they meant to maintain that pace until they reached wherever it was they were going.

“What did he mean by that?” she asked. “ ‘Perhaps we will meet again before the change’?”

“It does not matter what he meant,” Nynaeve said. “I am just glad to have them gone. What were you thinking, telling them who your mother is? They might have tried to kill you, or to take you prisoner. The Aiel War was not that long ago, and whatever they said about not harming women who don’t carry spears, they looked ready enough to use those spears on anything.”

Elayne shook her head ruefully. “I have just learned how much I do not know about the Aiel, but I was taught that they do not think of the Aiel War as a war at all. From the way they behaved toward me, I think maybe that much of what I learned is truth. Or maybe it was because they think I am Aes Sedai.”

Nynaeve sniffed. “No-one can call three years of battles anything but a war. I do not care how much they fight among themselves, a war is a war.”

“Not to them. Thousands of Aiel crossed the Spine of the World, but apparently they saw themselves more like thief-takers, or headsmen, come after Queen Laina of Cairhien for the crime of cutting down  _ Avendoraldera _ . To the Aiel, it was not a war; it was an execution.”

_ Avendoraldera _ , had been an offshoot of the Tree of Life itself, brought to Cairhien some five hundred years ago as an unprecedented offer of peace from the Aiel, given along with the right to cross the Waste, a right otherwise given to none but peddlers, gleemen, and the  _ Tuatha’an _ . Much of Cairhien’s wealth had been built on the trade in ivory and perfumes and spices and, most of all, silk, from the lands beyond the Waste. None of her tutors had known how the Aiel had come by a sapling of  _ Avendesora _ —for one thing, the old books were clear that it made no seed; for another, no-one knew where the Tree of Life was, except for a few stories that were clearly wrong, but surely the Tree of Life could have nothing to do with the Aiel—or of why the Aiel had called the Cairhienin the Watersharers, or insisted their trains of merchant wagons fly a banner bearing the trefoil leaf of  _ Avendesora _ .

Elayne could understand why they had started a war—even if they did not think it was one—after Queen Laina cut down their gift to make a throne unlike any other in the world. Laina’s Sin, she had heard it called. Andor had gone to war for less. Not only had Cairhien’s trade across the Waste ended with the war, but those Cairhienin who ventured into the Waste now vanished. Verin claimed they were said to be “sold as animals” in the lands beyond the Waste. Slaves, Elayne suspected she meant. Such things were not done in Valgarda, but she had a personal familiarity with the concept from her time as a prisoner of the Seanchan. And a personal hatred for it as well. No matter what Laina had done, the Cairhienin did not deserve such treatment, but she could not see any way that she could stop it. However, she knew of someone else who might be able to ...

She glanced around, to make sure no-one was close enough to overhear, before continuing. “Nynaeve, you know who He Who Comes With the Dawn must be, don’t you?”

“Rand,” Nynaeve sighed. “That boy is never not in trouble.”

Elayne nodded. “I think so, too. I do not know much of the Prophecies of the Dragon, but I have heard a few lines. One I remember is, ‘On the slopes of Dragonmount shall he be born, born of a maiden wedded to no man’. Nynaeve, Rand does look like an Aiel. Well, he looks like the pictures I have seen of Tigraine, too, but she vanished before he was born, and I hardly think she could have been his mother anyway. I think Rand’s mother was a Maiden of the Spear. Did the al’Thors ever say anything to you about him?”

“That’s private,” Nynaeve said, giving Elayne a firm look.

After a moment’s thought, Elayne decided to let the topic lie, for now. There really was no sense arguing with Nynaeve when she got like this. Or of allowing resentments to fester. So, after a time of silence, Elayne said, “You handled that very well, Nynaeve. The Healing and the rest, too. I do not think they ever doubted you were Aes Sedai. Or that we all were, because of the way you bore yourself. That was the first time I have ever really watched what is done during a Healing. It makes making lightning look like folding laundry.”

A surprised smile appeared on Nynaeve’s face. “Thank you,” she murmured, and reached over to run her fingertips softly along Elayne’s cheek. The touch made her shiver, for it seemed to hold a promise of what was to come.


	6. Pillow-friends

CHAPTER 3: Pillow-friends

“I smell trouble brewing,” Dani muttered. Trouble was like a weed in the vegetable garden—you needed to keep an eye out for the small signs, and then destroy it before it could grow. And you needed to do it every single day. She’d long since gotten used to that chore, both the literal and figurative one, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it; it was just the price you had to pay for a peaceful life.

“Elayne and Nynaeve, do you mean?” Ilyena said. It was no surprise that she had noticed, too. Ilyena wasn’t like Wynifred or Shimoku, sheltered and prone to missing social clues. No, she noticed, she just didn’t pay them as much heed as she probably should.

“Elayne and Nynaeve ... and Min, is what I mean,” Dani said, with a wry smile for her not-so-sweet love.

“Are you going to put your foot down? Take a slipper to them? I could hold them down if you like ...” A wicked smile crossed Ilyena’s doll-like face. That smile had taken her aback once, years ago—as it often did people who weren’t familiar with Ilyena and her ways—but now it just made her shake her head in fond exasperation.

“I doubt I could, between their strengths in the Power, and that letter Nynaeve carries.”

“You know, she could use that letter to compel all manner of favours from people ...”

Dani rolled her eyes at that leading statement. “I seriously doubt Nynaeve would do such a thing. She’s loud and bossy, but she’s far too righteous for that.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” Ilyena allowed, after a moment’s hesitation that was mostly put on for show. Or so years of intimacy had taught her. Her pillow-friend liked to shock people, to tease them, knock them off balance, make them uncomfortable. But she was more bark than bite ... for the most part.

“A very good thing,” Dani said firmly. She’d never been one for teasing, preferring a more direct approach in all things. But part of her couldn’t help but enjoy Ilyena’s antics. Watching her do and say the things that Dani never would, and keeping her in line when she threatened to go too far, ensured that no day was ever dull, even when cooped up in the White Tower. Which they certainly were not now. “What did you think of the Aiel?” she added. “A strange and violent people, but interesting in a way ...”

“In what way?” Ilyena demanded with a sudden, suspicious frown. “I’m every bit as strange and violent as they are!”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, relax! That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Ilyena grunted softly, and then made a small show of being mollified. “That Aviendha was a beauty though. And the two, ah, first-sisters weren’t half bad looking either.”

“It was practically marriage, the way they described it ...”

“That would be a first,” Ilyena muttered. “But you heard her. If a Maiden wants to marry, she has to leave the group.”

“I guess.” It was an interesting idea though. Marriage was only ever between a man and a woman, in any nation that Dani had ever learned about in the Tower. The Aiel were different, and that intrigued her.

A high-pitched, Illianer voice interrupted. “How do you know that, Ilyena? You didn’t talk to them did you? While you were away?”

“I didn’t think they wanted to talk to anyone, the way they kept giving us the hard stare,” added an Andoran one.

While Nynaeve and Elayne led the way towards the old, walled port of Nesum, Dani turned in her saddle to regard the rest of the Accepted.

Little Emara and not-so-little Ronelle had been a couple for about as long as Dani and Ilyena had. Ilyena’s slander of them as mother and daughter wasn’t entirely fair, but it wasn’t a hundred miles from the truth either. Ronelle was very much Emara’s protector.

“One of them was flashing her bosom at Nynaeve,” Ilyena said, deadpan. “It got a bit tense, so we had to make conversation to lighten the mood.”

Emara clapped a hand to her mouth. “How scandalous! But what else can one expect from savages.”

Dani let Ilyena’s stretching of the truth pass unremarked. Asseil was still riding silently at their side, but she had to be sure not to let her guard down around the woman. She was a good bit stronger in the Power than Dani, but not as strong as Ilyena. Together, they should be able to deal with her if Nynaeve’s suspicions proved well founded.

It would be easier if Nynaeve would allow them to tell the others about Asseil’s situation, but she didn’t want to, for whatever reason. Maybe she didn’t trust them either, or maybe she didn’t want to tarnish the woman’s name without proof. Dani didn’t give a fig about Asseil’s name. If she wasn’t a fool, then she’d know they had good cause to be suspicious of her, and take their precautions in stride. And if she was the type to take it personally, then she didn’t deserve their consideration.

If it were up to her, she’d have brought Theodrin, Keestis and Pedra into it, at least. Mayam and Mair could probably be relied on, too. Maybe Emara and Ronelle, if they weren’t too focused on each other. Wynifred, Shimoku and Calindin she might have seen fit to leave out—they were a bit too sheltered, in her estimation. But it was Nynaeve’s decision to make, unfortunately.

While Ilyena led Emara by the nose through a colourful tale of Dailin, Aviendha and the rest’s supposed attempt to lure Nynaeve into a wild orgy, Dani turned her attention towards the town ahead. Nesum was an old town, but the twenty foot tall white walls that surrounded all but its eastern side were relatively new. They had been raised at the Aes Sedai’s order as part of their concerted effort to ensure that they didn’t lose control of the only port they had on the Arindrelle. Tar Valon’s rule only nominally stretched this far out. Indeed, it had been several days’ worth of riding since Dani had seen a village or farm rather than unpeopled wilderness. Despite its isolated location, however, Nesum had a large and vibrant population. That was Aes Sedai work, too, for monetary incentives had been offered to any Tar Valoni willing to settle out here, and a contingent of the Tower Guard had been sent to ensure that the settlers were protected from any bandits who might infest the surrounding wilderness.

Armoured men with the White Flame emblazoned on their tabards peered down curiously as Nynaeve led the other women through the arched gateway, but no-one attempted to bar their passage. Dani had half-expected the buildings within to be a mirror of those found in Tar Valon city, but Nesum proved to be rather less remarkable in that regard. She couldn’t see a single building that was taller than two stories, and those second stories were made of wood rather than stone. They were also plain and square, not at all like the fantastical homes and shops that Tar Valon boasted.

Mounted as they were, Dani doubted they would have had to push through the crowds even without their rings, but being proper Tar Valoni the folk of Nesum stepped smartly aside as soon as they recognised she and her companions as initiates of the White Tower. They probably thought them Aes Sedai, since Accepted rarely left the capital, and their thinking so ensured that this portion of their journey would be smooth. The problems, to Dani’s mind, would begin in Tear.

Nynaeve pulled up as soon as they came in sight of the docks. Turning in her saddle, she cast a dark gaze over the women she had gathered for this disturbing mission. Sternly beautiful, she had an untameable way about her that Dani admired. That didn’t mean the thought of her being tamed didn’t privately intrigue her though. Talk died among the other women as they realised Nynaeve was watching.

“Pedra. Go find someone who’s planning to lead a caravan back to Tar Valon sometime soon. Impress on them that the Amyrlin Seat will require them to take our horses back to the Tower stables. And make sure they understand that it will be their hides if the beasts don’t make it there safely!”

“I’m sure there will be a merchant woman here that can do that,” said Pedra, a skinny and humourless woman who shared Nynaeve’s colouring.

Nynaeve nodded. “Get it done.” She muttered something under her breath about not being able to be everywhere at once before continuing. “Shimoku, you and Ronelle see about topping up our supplies. And mind you don’t overspend! Calindin, Mair, you go with them to help carry.”

Mair objected loudly to that, and Nynaeve set to brow-beating her into submissions. Dani had heard those arguments too many times before to pay much heed. Instead, she watched pretty little Shimoku, with her narrow eyes and long black hair. She might have had good cause to be offended by Nynaeve’s warning. She was a banker’s daughter, and quite familiar with getting as much value as she could for something. But she showed no offense, just climbed down from her saddle and quietly began rummaging through the packhorses’ hampers to see what they needed most.

Pedra had hesitated before going on about her task, and Dani was tempted to speak up on her behalf. She’d always been uncomfortable around men, and it wasn’t certain that the people she’d need to speak to would be female. Dani decided she needed to get over that mere moments before Pedra herself straightened up and strode off down the street, perhaps deciding the same.

Leaving Nynaeve to her business, Dani motioned for Ilyena to join her, and together they steered Asseil up to the end of the street. The packed dirt muffled the sound of their horses’ hooves, but Elayne heard them coming anyway.

“I suspect you shall all be happy to know that I prevailed upon Nynaeve to let us stay in a local inn for the night, rather than taking ship immediately. I must say, a bath will be most welcome,” she said, as she ran a graceful hand fondly along her horse’s neck. She looked genuinely sad to be parting with the white mare, and Dani couldn’t help but smile. Spoiled noble or not, there was a goodness to Elayne that made it hard not to like her.

“That will be a relief,” Asseil said, though in a much more subdued tone than she’d been using before their recent encounter in the woods.

“Sadly, we shall not be spending enough coin to arrange rooms for everyone,” Elayne continued, a note of sternness creeping into her high voice. “You three will have to share with Theodrin, Nynaeve says.”

“I see,” Asseil sulked. Dani saw, too. Theodrin was a fellow Domani whom Dani had always gotten along well with. She was also the strongest in the Power of all the Accepted Nynaeve had picked for her hunting party, short of Nynaeve and Elayne themselves. Whether or not Nynaeve meant to let her in on her suspicions about Asseil, it was plain she wanted Theodrin nearby in case they needed to overpower her.

“More company. Wonderful,” said Ilyena, insincerely. Dani shared her frustrations, but it was an important job they’d been given and she was determined to see it done right. No matter how pretty Ilyena looked when she was all worked up like she was now.

“What’s the name of the inn?” she asked.

“We haven’t found one yet, as it happens. Why don’t you and Ilyena go and locate it. Flash your rings at the innkeeper. I rather doubt the Tar Valoni will need more than that to make the appropriate arrangements. No more than six rooms, mind,” Elayne said. She shook her head, red-gold curls swaying in the breeze. “That was all I was able to talk her down to. I swear, that woman keeps a tighter grip on her purse strings than the most miserly merchant in Far Madding.”

Dani refrained from looking Ilyena’s way. Elayne looked and sounded perfectly innocent as she sent her and her lover off to be alone at an inn ... but it was hard to believe she was unaware of the opportunity she was offering them.

“I’ll get right on that,” Dani said blandly. “Thanks.”

It was hard to tell, but she thought she saw the flash of a dimpled smile before the Daughter-Heir turned her attention upon Asseil. Given how strong Elayne was—more than twice as strong as Dani—there was little doubt she could contain Asseil on her own, so they left her there and rode off through the streets of Nesum. Just the two of them.

“She’s not so bad, for a soft southerner,” Ilyena allowed.

Several dozen past arguments over the supposed softness of “southerners” like herself flashed through Dani’s mind, but all she did was shake her head. They’d both long since said everything that needed to be said on that topic.

The rigours of the journey hadn’t done much to conceal Ilyena’s fair beauty. Pale yellow hair hung down her back, stirred by her horse’s motion. Her long fringe was brushed forwards, but not far enough to hide the way her blue eyes studied Dani as they rode. Dani found herself licking suddenly dry lips.

Nynaeve would probably have preferred them to shop around for the best prices, but Dani dismounted outside the stable of the first inn they saw, fully intending to take whatever rooms they had. Chesa’s Refuge, the sign outside named it.

Chesa Rits was the name the plump, amber-skinned innkeeper gave, smiling brightly at the sight of their Great Serpent rings. She had plenty of rooms, she assured them, and even if she hadn’t, she would have put some of her other guests out in order to make room for Aes Sedai. Dani didn’t correct her on her misconception, but she did ask to inspect the rooms in person.

“We may take some time,” Ilyena added. “The Tower must maintain its standards. In all things.”

“Oh, of course, of course, Aes Sedai,” Rits babbled. “I hope you will find my place to your liking. It’s an honour to have you beneath my roof, truly an honour.”

A sly smile curved Ilyena’s lips, and her gaze slid Dani’s way. “Funnily enough, I was just thinking much the same thing.”

Dani asked after baths while Rits led them upstairs, and welcomed the innkeeper’s assurance that hot water would be provided as soon as possible, but her longing for a soak was quickly abandoned in favour of a different kind of longing, once they stepping into the comfortable bedroom, and her eyes met Ilyena’s.

“Leave us, innkeeper. There are matters I must discuss with my sister,” her pillow-friend said commandingly.

Rits curtseyed low. “As you say, Aes Sedai.”

Dani waited only long enough for Ilyena to latch the door behind the innkeeper, before pouncing upon her and locking her lips to the other woman’s. A mixture of pleasure and relief washed through her at the touch of those soft lips. They combed their fingers through each other’s hair as they kissed deeply. Pale digits brushed through Dani’s thick mass of ebon hair, even as her own fingers savoured the texture of Ilyena’s silken locks.

Ilyena was the one to push them towards the bed, but she was also the one to end up bent over it. Soft laughter sounded as her elbows collided with the soft mattress. “You’re so rough, Dani.”

“You know you love it.”

Reaching down, she took hold of Ilyena’s green riding skirts and pulled them up over her hips, exposing her rumpled underclothes.

“A bath would have been nice, I suppose ...” Ilyena said.

“Burn the bath,” Dani said in a low growl. She forcefully yanked Ilyena’s bloomers down and then knelt to press her face against the place between her slender legs and her pretty bottom. Her questing tongue found the folds of Ilyena’s sex—the delightfully wet folds—and teased out a moan. Dani lapped at her repeatedly, until the moans had become delightfully loud, then she slapped her lightly on the bottom. “That’s my girl.”

“Only so long as you keep doing that.”

“Oh, I intend to. But first, let’s rid you of those clothes.”

Ilyena didn’t help her with that task, but Dani hadn’t expected her to. Her pillow-friend liked to be stripped. So Dani stripped her to her skin, exposing her soft, pink-tipped breasts, which fit her hands perfectly; now, as always. They were a little smaller than Dani’s, just as Ilyena was a little shorter, but not remarkably so. She leaned back into Dani’s caress for a while, but voiced no objection when she knelt once more, this time to rid her of her shoes and stockings.

As soon as she was fully stripped, Ilyena raised one foot and planted it on the edge of the bed. Her shapely leg, flawless skin and pert bottom made for an underwear-flooding sight. But it was that wicked little smirk she sent back over her shoulder that got Dani going most. “Get in there,” Ilyena said, gesturing to her exposed womanhood.

Dani did just that, her body moving almost of its own accord. She tasted Ilyena’s arousal once more, this time giving her as furious a tongue fucking as she could manage.

She wasn’t content to just use her mouth though. Once she had Ilyena thoroughly aroused, she stood up again and wrapped an arm around her to caress her throat. Her other hand she reached down between Ilyena’s legs, to slip two fingers inside her pussy and fuck her more roughly.

Ilyena was not at all interested in resisting her. Instead, she thrust her hips backwards, inviting Dani’s hand inside. Dani loved that; the naked display of how much she wanted it. So she gave it to her, hard, using all four fingers now as Ilyena sang out her pleasure.

Her juices had thoroughly coated Dani’s hand, and dripped all over the inn’s nice carpet, by the time Ilyena suddenly gripped her own breasts in her hands and gave them a hard squeeze. She gritted her teeth as she came all over Dani’s hand, moaning all the while.

Once the orgasm had run its course, Ilyena’s knees weakened. Dani released her, and she promptly fell face down on the bed. She herself went and sat beside her, watching her try to catch her breath.

“You’re as beautiful as the day I first saw you,” Dani said.

Ilyena laughed softly. “If you thought I was beautiful back then, you had a funny way of showing it.”

“Well. I didn’t say you weren’t still a little cow.”

“Hey!”

Dani smiled. “Sometimes anyway. You can be sweet when you want to be.”

Ilyena rearranged herself until she was laying in the bed facing Dani, her weight resting on one elbow and her nude body on glorious display. “I want to be sweet now, but for some reason you’re still clothed ...”

Her brain suddenly refused to supply any further retorts. Biting her lip, Dani began untying the laces of her dress, slowly at first, but within heartbeats she was tearing at the fabric. It had been too long. Thoughts of the dirt of the road gave her momentary pause, but she pushed those thoughts aside. She and Ilyena knew each other too well to care about such things. She tossed her clothes all over the room in a whirlwind of desire, and when she finally stood there, naked as the day she was born, it took no more than a crooked finger to make her throw herself onto the bed at Ilyena’s side.

Her pillow-friend pushed her onto her back and then kissed her lips with a tenderness that a stranger would probably not have expected from her. A hand caressed her inner thigh, and Dani parted her legs to allow it access to her most intimate parts. The invitation was not refused, and spikes of pleasure soon began shooting through her. When her excitement rose so high that she could no longer contain her voice or maintain their kiss, Ilyena began working her way down Dani’s body. She kissed her neck and her breasts, her nipples, her belly, her thighs, until finally granting her the blissful touch of her lover’s lips upon her sex.

Dani let out a loud moan, and tangled her fingers in Ilyena’s pale hair. It contrasted beautifully against her own, darker complexion, she’d always thought. She stared down over her own belly now, watching in wonder as Ilyena pressed her beautiful face against Dani’s crotch and began eating her out in earnest. Tongue and lips and fingers the other woman used, stirring Dani’s pleasure with a familiar surety that spoke of their years of intimacy.

Dani’s legs seemed to develop a will of their own. Wider and wider they spread, and higher and higher they rose, until she was laying on her back with her knees reaching towards her shoulders, her feet reaching to the roof as though in surrender, toes spasming in response to Ilyena’s skilled ministrations.

She felt herself getting closer and closer to the edge, and her breath began to hitch in her throat. “Ilyena! Ilyena, I’m coming!” she managed to get out. The only response was a sudden increase in the ferocity of Ilyena’s lovemaking.

When Dani came, she came hard. Her fingers tightened in Ilyena’s hair, her thighs tightened around her face, and she began grinding her sex against the girl’s face as she was reduced to a mindless creature of pleasure. If she’d had room in her brain for thought, she might have worried that she was mistreating her pillow-friend, but then the recollection of past “mistreatments” and Ilyena’s dismissal of her concerns would have brought the needed reassurance. As it was, however, Dani just kept grinding, gasping and coming for what felt like a very long time.

She didn’t come back to herself until she felt Ilyena’s cheek coming to rest against her soft, coppery breast. Instinctually, she hugged her to her. A fond smile brightened her face.

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to let you off that easily, Rulonir,” Ilyena said, after a few peaceful minutes had passed. “We have some catching up to do.”

Dani laughed. “I suppose we do.”

She let her hand slide down Ilyena’s back, reaching for her tenderest parts once more ...


	7. The Grey Gull

CHAPTER 4: The _ Grey Gull _

The ship was flying the crescent moons of Tear, so Nynaeve brought the Tairen Accepted Mayam along with her when she went to sort out the captain. Just in case she had any questions about the place, mind, not because she needed help or anything. She hadn’t asked Elayne to come, but the Daughter-Heir just wandered off with her anyway. She was like a cat, in that regard.

She left Dani and the others to see to their belongings, and their prisoner, while she wiped the morning’s sleep from her eyes and marched off towards Nesum’s docks, where a ship would be awaiting them, provided the Amyrlin Seat had done as she’d said she would.

The heels of her shoes drummed against the planks that had been laid across the soft mud, down near the river. Nynaeve’s skirts weren’t long enough to be in danger of getting dirty, and neither were Mayam’s, but Elayne had to gather hers up and pick her way daintily towards the wooden docks.

Crewmen on the three-masted Tairen ship were unfastening the mooring lines not twenty paces away. The vessel was larger than any other that Nynaeve could see, perhaps a hundred feet from sharp bow to squared stern, with a flat, railed deck almost level with the wharf. The polished steel nameplate on its bow named it the  _ Grey Gull _ .

Frowning, Nynaeve lengthened her stride. “Where do those fools think they are going?”

She was angry enough to sense  _ saidar _ , and angry enough that her knees didn’t even wobble a little when she stalked along the gangplank and stepped onto the deck, braid in hand.

“You can’t be he—” a shirtless sailor began, but she cut him right off.

“Get me your captain! And be quick about it!”

The man gaped at her stupidly, before his dark eyes swivelled towards a taller, thinner and better-dressed fellow. The tall man seemed nearly as stunned. His pale blue eyes bulged, and his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. His black beard, cut to a point, seemed to quiver with rage, and his narrow face grew purple. “By the Stone!” he bellowed finally. “What is the meaning of this? Can you not see I’m ready to cast off, woman!? Sanor! Vasa! Get these bilge rats off my deck!” Two extremely large men, barefoot and stripped to the waist, straightened from coiling lines and started toward the stern.

Elayne and Mayam had followed at a more sedate pace. Nynaeve was aware of them coming to stand at her shoulders, but she would be burned if she needed their help to deal with the likes of this captain.

She fished the Amyrlin’s paper out of her pouch and waved it toward the bearded man with one hand while flashing her Great Serpent ring with the other. “We are on business of the White Tower. At the personal command of the Amyrlin Seat. Are you the ship that was supposed to wait for us? What are you about, leaving so early?”

Certain the man had seen the Flame of Tar Valon seal by that time, she folded the paper again and thrust it back out of sight. She hated to admit it, but she felt glad of  _ saidar’ _ s warm presence when the two big men came up on either side of the captain. They both had arms as thick as Haral Weyland’s.

The captain looked at her doubtfully, but he motioned Sanor and Vasa to stop where they were. “I would not anger the Tower. Burn my soul, for the time being the river trade takes me from Tear to this den of ... I come too often to anger ... anyone.” A tight smile appeared on his face. “But you are late. Two days I have waited. And that is two days that I’ve had to pay these louts for doing nothing but lazing about on deck. By the Stone! I’ve already taken on extra passengers to try to make up for the money lost. I’ll need more than the agreed upon price if you want passage after strolling in this late! An extra gold crown. Each. Or you can swim to Tear.”

“That is ridiculous!” Nynaeve snapped. The two large sailors shifted their bare feet.

“It is the price,” the captain said firmly. “I do not want to anger anyone, but I’d as soon not have any business you can be on aboard my vessel. Like letting a man pay you so he can coat you with hot tar, mixing in that business. You pay the price, or you swim, and the Amyrlin Seat herself can dry you off.”

“You must be very rich to risk offending the White Tower, Captain. Not to mention losing out on any trade with Andor,” said Elayne, in her most highborn of Andoran accents. “Is Johana Talvaen a personal friend of yours perhaps? I can only assume you make a veritable fortune in Ghealdan, to anger so many so heedlessly ...”

“A man who doesn’t keep his word is no man at all,” Nynaeve added, with a sharp tug on her braid.

The Tairen’s cheeks coloured, and she could see him grinding his teeth behind his beard. “Well, what about a woman who doesn’t keep hers? Two days late! If you hadn’t dawdled so much—”

“Dawdled!? I do not dawdle!” Nynaeve explained calmly, giving her braid another few tugs.

Elayne cut in before she could tell the captain exactly what she thought of him. “Perhaps some measure of compensation might be granted, but not of the sort requested. I can, for example, guarantee fair winds on the journey south. You will make up the lost time, captain, and then some.”

All across the deck, the eyes of listening men were drawn to the uniformly golden rings that the three women wore. They looked at them only briefly though, before looking away again. There was a sudden air of busyness about the sailors, as of men who didn’t want to be noticed or spoken to.

The captain wasn’t above the unease Elayne’s words inspired either. “I suppose a gold crown each is a bit too much to ask. My temper might have gotten the better of me,” he said stiffly.

Nynaeve sniffed. “Then have those men stop untying. The rest of our party should be here shortly.”

Dani Rulonir was a reliable woman. It was one of the things Nynaeve liked most about her. So it was no surprise when she appeared in as timely a fashion as Nynaeve had predicted. All of the other Accepted were with her, though most of them looked displeased at having to carry so many bags. Their horses had already been given into the care of a female merchant who claimed to do a great deal of business with Tar Valon. Pedra had said that the woman struck her as a Tower loyalist, and Nynaeve had decided to trust her judgement on that.

Ronelle was carrying twice as much as Emara, Mair had shouldered Mayam’s bags in addition to her own, and Keestis had brought Elayne’s too-full travelbag. Calindin was carrying Nynaeve’s, which was nice of her, but worrying, too. The more Nynaeve had come to know the woman, the more she had come to think it had been a mistake to recruit her. She was experienced, true, but she was also a bit ... slow. Conversations with her were a chore, and she tended to forget any instructions she had been given almost immediately after hearing them. The woman’s obvious embarrassment once she realised that she had forgotten something again was such that Nynaeve found yelling at her over it to be ... uncomfortable. And since Nynaeve occasionally found it a bit—just slightly!—hard not to yell, she found Calindin’s company difficult to endure.

It was Asseil that her main focus rested on though. Once again, she wondered if it might be best to leave her here. And once again, she dismissed the idea. Asseil was her problem to deal with. She’d find out of the truth of her allegiance in Tear, and then do what she had to do.

Mayam, meanwhile, had eyes only for the captain. And her gaze was not the admiring kind. “Wealthy peasants,” the dark-skinned woman said, making the words sound a curse. “They’re usually as bad as nobles, sometimes worse. Probably because they are trying so hard to be like them. I wouldn’t turn my back on that one. He’d probably bring the Defenders down on us if he could.”

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to give offense, Mayam,” Elayne said, with predictable coolness.

“Sureness comes naturally to you, I’ve noticed,” the other woman muttered.

While Elayne’s chin rose another few inches, Dani gained the deck. Nynaeve left the other two women to their squabbling and went to meet her.

“No trouble?”

Dani’s dark eyes flickered towards Asseil for just a moment. “None. We’ve settled accounts with the innkeeper, and are ready to sail.”

“I do suppose I’ll have to be quiet from here onwards,” Emara said, in her Illianer accent.

“You are an initiate of the White Tower, sweetie. They wouldn’t dare strike at you, whatever the history between Tear and Illian,” said Ronelle reassuringly.

The captain came to meet them then, smiling insincerely. Pedra crossed her arms almost defensively at the sight of him, but the scowl she wore was not at all afraid.

“Now your men can cast off,” said Nynaeve. “And you can show us to our cabins.”

His smile didn’t slip entirely, but it did become a bit of a sickly grimace.

He shouted a command, and the men at the sweeps went about their work, bending to lift the blades, taking three long steps along the deck, then straightening and walking backwards, hauling the ship ahead on their blades.

As the vessel’s bow turned south, the bearded man led the way down a ladder to a short, narrow passage lined with doors set close together. Most of the Accepted, save for Elayne and Nynaeve, were deposited there, though a few doors remained closed to them. Some of the women would have to share a room, but since Dani and Ilyena, and Ronelle and Emara were quick enough to volunteer for that, it wasn’t very hard to get everyone settled.

While the captain cleared his things from his cabin—it ran the width of the stern, with its bed and all of its furnishings built into the walls except two chairs and a few chests—and saw that his new passengers were settled, Nynaeve learned a great deal, beginning with the fact that the man would not be pushing any passengers out of their quarters. He had too much respect for the coin they had paid, if not for them, to allow that. The captain would take his first’s cabin, and that officer would take the second’s bed, pushing each lower man down till the deckmaster would end sleeping up in the bow with the crew.

The captain was a Tairen named Huan Mallia, and he spoke with great volubility. He was not nobly born, he said, not him, but he would not have anyone think he was a fool. This he said while smiling conspiratorially at Elayne. A young noblewoman with such colouring, why she might be anyone. Anyone at all! Even the Daughter-Heir of Andor. At Elayne’s censorious response, Mallia winked and chuckled and tugged the point of his beard. “By the Stone, I’ll not say you are, if you say you are not.” It was no secret that Queen Morgase had visited Tar Valon, though her reason certainly was. It was obvious to Mallia something was afoot between Caemlyn and Tar Valon. Anything he could do to help in so great an enterprise would be his pleasure, not that he meant to poke where he was not wanted, he said, while poking where he was not wanted.

Nynaeve exchanged flat looks with Elayne, who was setting her bag upon a table built out from one wall. The room they’d be sharing had two small windows on either side, and a pair of lamps in jointed brackets for light. “That’s none of your business,” Nynaeve said.

“Of course,” Mallia replied. He straightened from pulling clothes out of a chest at the foot of the bed and smiled. “Of course.” A cupboard in the wall seemed to hold charts of the river he would need. “I’ll say no more.”

But he did mean to poke, though he attempted to disguise it, and he rambled while he tried to pry. Nynaeve listened, and answered the questions with curt brevity, while Elayne said less than that.

Mallia had been a river man all his life, though he dreamed of sailing on the sea. He hardly spoke of a country beside Tear without contempt; Andor was the only one to escape, no doubt due to Elayne’s presence, and the praise he finally managed was grudging despite his obvious efforts. “Good horses in Andor, I’ve heard. Not bad. Not as good as Tairen stock, but good enough. You make good steel, and iron goods, bronze and copper—I’ve traded for them often enough, though you charge a weighty price—but then you have those mines in the Mountains of Mist. Gold mines, too. We have to earn our gold, in Tear.”

Mayene received his greatest contempt. “Even less of a country than Far Madding is. One city and a few leagues of land. They underprice the oil from our good Tairen olives just because their ships know how to find the oilfish shoals. They’ve no right to be a country at all.”

He hated Illian. “One day we’ll loot Illian bare, tear down every town and village, and sow their filthy ground with salt.” Mallia’s beard almost bristled with outrage at how filthy the Illian land was. “Even their olives are putrid! One day we’ll carry every last Illianer pig off in chains! That is what the High Lord Samon says.”

Nynaeve wondered what the man thought Tear would do with all those people if they actually fulfilled this vile scheme. The Illianers would have to be fed, and they would surely do no work in chains. It made no sense to her, but Mallia’s eyes shone when he spoke of it.

Only fools let themselves be ruled by a queen or a king, by one woman or man. “Except Queen Morgase, of course,” he put in hastily. “She is a fine woman, so I’ve heard. Beautiful, I’m told.” All those fools bowing to one fool. The High Lords and Ladies ruled Tear together, reaching decisions in concert, and that was how things should be. The nobles knew what was right and good and true. Especially the High Lord Samon. No man could go wrong obeying the High Lords. Especially the High Lord Samon.

Beyond kings and queens, beyond even Illian, lay a bigger hatred Mallia attempted to keep hidden, but he talked so much in trying to find out what they were up to, and grew so carried away by the sound of his own voice, that he let more slip than he intended.

They must travel a great deal, on the business of the White Tower. They must have seen many lands. He dreamed of the sea because then he could see lands he had only heard of, because then he could find the Mayener oilfish shoals, could out-trade the Sea Folk and the filthy Illianers. And the sea was far from Tar Valon.

“I never liked docking here, never knowing who might be using the Power.” He almost spat the last word. Mallia abruptly recalled who he was talking to, and shuddered. “I will send a man for my money chest,” he said stiffly, and beat a hasty retreat.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Elayne sniffed. “Odious man. I have never heard of this High Lord Samon he speaks of.”

“Well, even you cannot know everything about all the kings and queens and nobles there are, Elayne,” Nynaeve said dryly. “One or two might just have escaped your notice.”

“That is so,” Elayne allowed graciously. “Despite my best efforts, it is difficult to keep track of them all.”

They settled their belongings as they waited for Mallia’s man to arrive. Nynaeve couldn’t help but notice that there was only one bed in the room, but she quickly dismissed the idea of asking some of the other Accepted to swap places. Conditions were cramped for everyone, and Elayne wasn’t half as bad as, say, her aunt Moiraine.

Thinking of Moiraine made her both angry and nervous, as it always did now. The sudden fear that her emotions could be seen written on her face made her turn her back on Elayne. She busied herself shifting clothes from her travelbag to one of the chests, to hide her discomfort.

When she felt ready to look back, she found Elayne unpacking with calm efficiency, seemingly perfectly comfortable with the silence that had descended between them. Nynaeve wished she could be as calm. The arrival of Mallia’s burly sailor, come to collect his money chest, provided her an excuse to leave the room, one which Nynaeve snatched at in what she feared was an embarrassing fashion. “I should check on the others,” she explained needlessly, and then fled from Elayne’s questioningly raised eyebrow.

She didn’t return to the room for the rest of the day, though the others did not, as it turned out, need her help with anything at all. She wasted her time stalking about the deck instead, sniffing at any sailor who looked to be going about his work in a lazy fashion. She didn’t know what exactly their jobs were, of course, but she was convinced you could tell just from their attitude which of them was doing it right. She spotted more and more sailors with poor attitudes as the hours trickled by.

They were well on their way down the Arindrelle by the time the sun began to caress the horizon, and Nynaeve decided she’d done enough of the Tairen captain’s work for him. She stalked back to the passenger’s cabins with her braid in hand, and let herself back into the room she’d be using for the voyage to Tear.

The lone lamp gave a muted light to the scene. Everything had been tidied away, including those of her own possessions that she’d left behind when she went to survey the deck. Elayne was sitting at the table brushing her mane—one hundred long, practiced strokes, as was her daily habit. She was wearing a white silk nightdress, and was obviously just about to go to bed. Nynaeve hastily shut and latched the door, not wanting any passing sailor to spy on the poor girl in her state of dress.

“All is well, I trust?” Elayne said casually.

“Of course! Fine. It’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Her confused tone earned her another of those irritatingly speculative looks. Giving her braid one more tug, she fixed her attention on the jug of water that rested on the table near Elayne. “Did you drink it all?” she demanded.

“Obviously not. That would have been rude,” Elayne said primly. Her final few brushes were a bit more forceful than the others, and when she rose to go to bed she avoided Nynaeve’s eyes.

Muttering wordlessly to herself, Nynaeve drank deep and tried to banish the odd jitteriness that had infected her all throughout the day. She would not normally have been shy about undressing in front of another woman, but this time she extinguished the lamp before taking off her dress. The darkness wasn’t complete though, for the light of the setting sun slanted in through the window to illumine the pillow they’d be sharing, and wake the fire in Elayne’s curls as she lay watching the rustling shadow that was Nynaeve.

She had to rustle quite a bit before she found her own nightdress, buried in one of the captain’s chests, but Nynaeve stubbornly refused to spark a light, not after having made a point of putting out the previous one. The cooling evening air pebbled her skin as she crouched over the chest in the dark, but her persistence paid off, and soon she was decently clothed again and fit for bed. So what if she climbed in a bit forcefully? There was no need for Elayne to think anything was wrong, or act so hurt when Nynaeve told her to stop being a fool.

She knew she wouldn’t fall asleep right away, but she hadn’t expected to find the soft sound of Elayne’s breathing as distracting as she did. It was almost a relief when Elayne spoke.

“Are you angry with me, Nynaeve? Have I offended you in some way lately?”

Nynaeve immediately recalled all the arguments they’d had back when they were travelling with Luca’s circus. She was close to reminding the girl of the completely uncalled for things she’d said about Nynaeve’s dress, until a small voice whispered that she hadn’t exactly been very tolerant about Elayne’s fondness for showing off her pretty legs and hips in those tight breeches. In the end, Nynaeve’s recriminations went unsaid. Instead, she made her voice as kind as she could and said, “Don’t be silly, girl. You haven’t done anything wrong.” That was even true, or at least more true than not. Elayne was not Moiraine, whatever their relation.

“Good. I value your friendship far too much to want that. I would never offend or hurt you deliberately.” The bed shifted as Elayne moved closer and rested her head on Nynaeve’s shoulder. She was seeking a hug, and it would have been cruel to deny her ... so Nynaeve put her arms around Elayne’s shoulders and squeezed her soft warmth against her body. Just to be nice. And it was.

After a minute, Elayne spoke again. “Nynaeve, your heart’s racing ...”

“You must be imagining it,” Nynaeve said, her voice oddly high-pitched all of a sudden.

But Elayne’s face was resting against Nynaeve’s breast, and it was harder to deny the truth, in such circumstances, than Nynaeve would have liked.

“It’s okay. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do ...” Elayne whispered. She hugged Nynaeve back, every bit as tightly. They were so close and so still that she too could feel the other woman’s heartbeat.

The tension between them did not lesson as the minutes ticked by. Nynaeve’s body responded to Elayne’s proximity seemingly of its own will, something which she might have been able to hide, if the girl’s face had not been resting against her breast, and her stiffening nipple had not poked her right in the cheek.

“Do you want me to kiss it again?” Elayne whispered into the night. “I don’t mind, truly.”

Nynaeve’s underwear was uncomfortably damp by then, and there was no sense denying that Elayne’s proximity was having an effect on her that she hadn’t expected. The words wouldn’t come to her though. This was different from the other encounters she’d had with other women, Elayne included. There were no excuses here. No-one was forcing her, no pressing task required her to act. There was no question to answer save that of desire. Did she want Elayne to be her lover?

The Daughter-Heir of Andor levered herself up on the bed and brought her mouth closer to Nynaeve’s face, to softly repeat her question. “What do you want?”

Nynaeve had to gulp before she could answer. “Y-you,” she said, more tremulously than she liked. To hide her shame, she took Elayne by the hair and pressed their lips together.

Her body thrilled to that touch, but not so much that Nynaeve didn’t notice the differences. Though Elayne kissed her back with flattering passion, her kisses remained soft and gentle in comparison to those of Rand—the only man she’d ever known. Her hands rested more lightly upon Nynaeve’s flesh, too. It was not that Rand had been rough or violent with her; it was just that there was something undeniably more feminine about Elayne’s caress. The difference didn’t put Nynaeve off. Not at all. In accepting Elayne’s kiss, it was almost as though she was accepting herself.

Soon she found her hands roving down over the silk of Elayne’s nightdress towards her shapely rump, the one she recalled all-too well from their misadventure with the circus. There, too, she was softer than Rand. She clutched and fondled Elayne’s bottom, unwittingly breaking their kiss and winning soft gasps from the girl’s lips.

“I’ll take care of you,” Elayne said, and before Nynaeve’s pleasure-addled mind could come up with a response, she had lifted the covers over her head and was diving beneath them. The bed shifted violently as Elayne repositioned herself, and didn’t stop until her bare feet were poking out where her head had just been.

“I’m older, I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” Nynaeve managed at last, but she doubted Elayne heard her. By then, hands were pulling up her nightdress and tugging at her underwear. Despite the red that stained her cheeks, Nynaeve had no intention of stopping Elayne’s bold explorations.

She had intended to stop herself from making any embarrassing noises though. She’d even braced herself for it, when she felt her underwear being pulled down past her knees, and warm breath begin beating against her more tender parts. But she still let out a loud moan when Elayne’s lips came into contact with her womanhood.

Her stomach fluttered and her limbs twitched uncontrollably at every touch of Elayne’s sweet little tongue upon her sex. The heir to Andor’s throne didn’t show any hesitation in running her tongue all up and down Nynaeve’s hot slit. The touch did not cool her, it just made her feel hotter and hotter, wetter and wetter. When Elayne pressed her lips to Nynaeve’s pussy and dared to push her tongue inside her hole, a particularly strong wave of pleasure punched through her and she found herself gripping the bedsheets in both hands so tightly she feared she might tear them.

Even in the haze of her pleasure, Nynaeve’s over-active conscious prodded her to action. Elayne was doing all the work, while she just lay there basking in the results. She’d told the girl she would take care of her, but she hadn’t heard. Or had she? Her gaze was drawn to Elayne’s pale legs, poking out from beneath the covers into the shrinking light of the setting sun. Had she positioned herself like that as an invitation? A request? Nynaeve bit her lip, and reached out a trembling hand to grasp Elayne by the calf and pull her closer.

It was a bit awkward to disentangle sheet and shift and pantalettes, but she managed to free Elayne’s private parts and expose her orange-furred sex, which glistened encouragingly in the light. Nynaeve wanted to return the favour Elayne was doing for her but the tangle frustrated her straining efforts so, made forceful by her annoyance, she rolled over, parted Elayne’s thighs with her hands and gave her an experimental lick.

She hadn’t intended to kneel across Elayne’s chest, but that was how she ended up. Her first thought was to climb off again, but the noises Elayne was making sounded so encouraging that she decided to stay there. She pressed her red-cheeked face against Elayne’s crotch and forced more of those sweet cries from her lips as her hands caressed the girl’s soft, silky thighs.

If the unresisting way Elayne lay there, spread eagled and sopping wet, hadn’t been enough proof of her acceptance, the way she moaned Nynaeve’s name before wrapping her arms around her hips and pulling her down towards her face would have made it unmissable to anyone, even someone who lacked Nynaeve clear-headed worldview.

While Elayne lapped at her eagerly, a caring settled over Nynaeve. She’d always taken care of her people, of course. And she’d taken care of Elayne, too. But that had been, she had to admit, a secondary concern when compared to the Emond’s Field folk. In the privacy of her own thoughts, Nynaeve adopted Elayne as an honorary Therener in that moment. As she located the engorged little nub that crowned Elayne’s sex, and gave it a good, firm tickle, she vowed to herself that she would let no harm come to this girl, sweet, spoiled, silly, brave, clever, selfless little thing that she was.

The sounds of lips and tongues being brought passionately to bear against pussies filled the room as the two Accepted stirred each other’s pleasure. Nynaeve’s inhibitions fled in the midst of their coupling, and she found herself pressing her mouth hard against Elayne’s sex, straining to push her tongue as far into her as she could so she could lap at her honey. Elayne was a generous soul, and soon provided her a bountiful helping, one delivered with a high-pitched growl that the sheets that covered her couldn’t quite muffle.

Nynaeve had been floating maddeningly close to the edge for some time by then, and the sounds Elayne made when she came brought her closer still, but somehow she just couldn’t finish. In desperation, she tossed the blankets aside and knelt erect to yank her nightdress off over her head. Quickly turning around, she knelt above Elayne’s and looked down past her own heaving breasts at the Daughter-Heir’s beautiful face.

Instead of being alarmed at what, to Nynaeve, would have been a threatening position, Elayne smiled up at her. The girl was six years younger than her but there was a knowing in those big blue eyes of hers that made Nynaeve feel even more naked than she truly was. It almost looked like wisdom, but that couldn’t be so. “Let me help you,” Elayne said, reaching up to take Nynaeve’s hands.

Their fingers interlaced, and Nynaeve lowered her pussy towards Elayne mouth. She sat upon the Daughter-Heir’s face and felt her tongue going to work on her once more. They never broke eye contact and there was nothing but trust in Elayne’s gaze. It eased a knot that Nynaeve had been carrying for some time, and she found herself clutching the girl’s hands hard in hers as she came closer and closer to the brink.

When she came, she came hard. Her hips jerked back and forth, rubbing her pussy across Elayne’s willing mouth as her juices poured out to stain her pinkened cheeks. It felt glorious, and not at all painful or humiliating. It seemed to go on forever, that outpouring. And it was over far too soon.

Nynaeve’s legs retained just enough strength to heave herself off her young lover and allow her to collapse back onto the bed in a whoof of breath. “Light. Sweet, light. Elayne,” she gasped. Though it was she who was the healer, she felt as if it was she who had been healed just then.

She was still gasping incoherent benedictions when Elayne climbed up beside her and snuggled in. Nynaeve was too pleasure-addled to complain, even when she claimed a larger share of the covers than she should.

“I dare say this makes it official then,” Elayne did indeed dare to say.

“What do you mean?” Nynaeve mumbled.

“Well, you are my lover now, silly. There was an excuse for our previous liaison, but there are no such extenuating circumstances now. You like me.”

She sounded far too pleased with herself, but Nynaeve could only manage a half-hearted sniff. She was just too comfortable for more, no matter how badly Elayne needed to have her head deflated.

“Well, that’s fine by me. I have to admit that I am rather more than fond of you as well, despite your various issues,” she continued.

_ Issues? What issues? _ “You mind your tongue, girl. You’re not in your mother’s palace anymore, and I won’t tolerate any of your snippiness.” Nynaeve was too tired to make her voice as stern as it should be.

“Don’t think this means I’ll let you bully me though. I am a grown woman, and Accepted just as you are now. We are equals,” Elayne finished firmly.

Nynaeve’s mouth worked. She was older, stronger and more experienced that this snooty little minx, part of her insisted. Equals was an insult. But then another, fairer part of her realised the virtue behind what Elayne was saying. She, the heir to the throne of Andor—a future queen!—was calling Nynaeve an equal. And that was in addition to her other virtues, of which it could not be denied that she possessed many, some of which Nynaeve herself lacked, liked patience and diplomacy.

Her arm tightened around Elayne’s shoulder as the last light of the sun faded from their bedroom. “Fine,” Nynaeve allowed. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t tell you in no uncertain terms when you are being a fool.”

Elayne snuggled in closer. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	8. Far Madding

CHAPTER 5: Far Madding

Mat’s luck made money a non-issue, so he’d bought the finest horse he could find back in Caemlyn. But even the finest of horses needed to rest, and time was not on his side. He had an assassin to stop and no way to know where the man was, save that his target was in the city of Tear. The need for a replacement horse, or a fast ship to take him south, was what had brought him to this city. So far as he was concerned, that was one more debt that Elayne and Nynaeve owed him.

He would have words to say the next time he saw those irritating women— _ If I ever do. Light, I never thought of that _ —words he did not think they would enjoy hearing.

Like Tar Valon, Far Madding was built on an island in the River Erinin. And like Tar Valon, it was a place Mat would be happy never to visit again. The island and the walled city that had been built on it were both smaller than Tar Valon, and both were, of course, ruled by women, but there the similarities ended.

Far Madding’s great claim to fame was the  _ ter’angreal _ it possessed. The Guardian, they called it now. If it had ever had another name, it was lost to time. Mat supposed it must have been made during the Breaking, when fear of madmen channelling the Power was the matter of every day. The  _ ter’angreal _ apparently duplicated a  _ stedding _ . In the important ways at least. The One Power could not be used in Far Madding city, or for several miles beyond its walls. It could not be copied any more than it could be removed, he’d been told. That saddened him. The idea of a place completely free of the Power had been pretty damn desirable. It was just a shame that Far Madding had so many other, less desirable, features.

Only a few men were sitting at the round tables in the common room of The Crown of Maredo when Mat descended from his room. Despite the grand name, it was a relatively modest inn, with two dozen rooms on two floors above. The plastered walls of the common room were painted yellow, and the men serving table here wore long yellow aprons. A stone fireplace at either end of the room gave it a marked warmth. The shutters were bolted, but lamps hung on the walls took the edge off the dimness. The smells drifting from the kitchens drew him closer, and promised a tasty breakfast of fish from the river. The cooks at The Crown of Maredo were very good.

Mat would be sorry to miss that. Near the kitchen, at the door to the Women’s Room, he stopped. Men were not allowed in there. Aside from a few flowers painted on the yellow walls, the Women’s Room was not much fancier than the common room, though the stand-lamps were painted yellow, too, and the facings of the fireplace. The yellow aprons worn by the women who served table here were no different than those worn by the men in the common room. Mistress Nalhera, the slim, grey-haired innkeeper, was sitting at the same table as her female guests, all of them chatting and laughing over tea. All of the women wore high-necked Far Madding dresses, heavily embroidered with flowers and birds on the bodice and shoulders and right up to their chins. Mat might have been tempted to try his luck with some of them, but he’d already learned better.

He decided he wasn’t going to pay for food here, no matter how tasty. The first time he’d heard a Far Madding woman recommend taking the strap to all the males in the family on a daily basis, just to reinforce past lessons, he’d thought she was joking. Women back home sometimes said such things, but they didn’t actually do them. This morning though, when he’d been rooting about in his room to see what he could find, he’d discovered one of the straps in question in the drawer of the bedside table. The thing was as long as his arm and as wide as his hand, with a wooden handle at one end and the other end split into three tails. All the inns apparently had them, and encouraged even outlander women to use them on their men.

Without the threat of the One Power to enforce their rule, the matriarchy was much stricter here than in the other nations of Valgarda. It made him grind his teeth just thinking about it. A man should never harm a woman, of course, but there was no way he’d just lay there if one of them tried to take a strap to him like that.

Mat hefted his “walking stick” and stalked out of the inn, almost forgetting to limp. In Far Madding, no man was allowed to carry more than the belt knife unless it was peace-bonded with a net of metal wire so it couldn’t be drawn. Even the Wall Guards could not take a sword away from their place of duty, and if you asked one about that, as Mat had, they’d tell you that it a good thing, too. The male Wall Guards were selected young, and well-trained. Not so much in fighting, but in following the orders of their all-female officers. Mat had had to smile brightly and talk fast to persuade them that his staff was just for walking, back when he’d first crossed one of the three arching bridges that led from the villages on the shores of the river to the city proper.

Some of the folk filing past the guard posts ahead of him hadn’t been as quick on their feet as Mat. Shouts and demands and prattle about their honour hadn’t let any man keep his sword who wasn’t willing to pay to have it peace-bonded. “No need for any man to defend himself in Far Madding, Master,” he’d heard one stocky guard say. He hadn’t sounded mocking. He’d been just stating the obvious. “The Street Guards take care of that. Let any man as wants start carrying a sword, and soon we’d be as bad as everyplace else. I heard what they’re like, Master, and we don’t want that here.” Mat snorted to himself at the recollection.  _ Well-trained puppies _ .

The Amhara Market on which his inn fronted was one of three in Far Madding where foreigners were allowed to trade. An abundance of market stalls displayed the merchandise on sale, despite the fact that outsiders had to pay triple what a native Far Maddinger merchant would have for a spot. A few mounted riders, a handful of closed sedan chairs carried by brightly liveried bearers and the occasional coach with its window curtains drawn made their way through a sparse yet bustling crowd. Most were well wrapped in their cloaks against the morning winds blowing in off the river that surrounded the city, just like Mat himself was. Around the square, as at the city’s other two Strangers’ Markets, the tall stone houses of bankers rubbed shoulders with slate-roofed stone inns where the foreign merchants stayed and blocky windowless stone warehouses where their goods were stored, all jumbled in among stone stables and stone-walled wagon yards. Far Madding was a city of stone walls and slate roofs.

A round marble pedestal in the centre of the square held a statue of Savion Amhara, two spans tall and proud in fur-trimmed robes of marble, with elaborate marble chains of office around her neck. Her marble face was stern beneath the First Counsel’s jewelled marble diadem, and her right hand firmly gripped the hilt of a marble sword, its point resting between her slippered feet, while her raised left hand aimed a warning marble finger toward the Tear Gate, some three-quarters of a mile away. Far Madding depended on merchants from Tear and Illian and Caemlyn, but the High Council was ever wary of foreigners and their corrupting outland ways. One of the steel-capped Street Guards, in a leather coat sewn with overlapping square metal plates and a Golden Hand on the left shoulder, stood below the statue using a long limber pole to frighten away black-winged grey pigeons. Savion Amhara was one of the three most revered women in Far Madding’s history, though none was known very far beyond the lake’s shores. Two men from the city were mentioned in every history of the world, though it had been called Aren Mador when one was born and Fel Moreina for the other, but Far Madding did its fervent best to forget Raolin Darksbane and Yurian Stonebow. That much, at least, Mat could support.

His plain brown woollens were nondescript, and his colouring no different than the average Far Maddinger’s, but that he was from off was plain enough, with his short hair. Men here wore it sometimes hanging all the way to the waist, either tied at the nape of the neck or held with a clip. Most of the local men wore dull colours, with brighter embroidery about the chest and shoulders and perhaps a jewelled hair clip for the more prosperous, while the outland merchants favoured sober unpretentious clothes, so as not to seem overly wealthy, and their guards and drivers bundled themselves in rough woollens. A few people in the Amhara glanced at him as he passed, yet nobody glanced twice except the Street Guards. Foreigners were considered troublemakers and hotheads.

Putting on his best smile, Mat limped off in the direction of the docks while sending up a prayer that the ship he’d been looking for would be there this time.

He made his way down the Street of Joy, really two broad straight streets separated by a measured row of miserable-looking grey-barked trees. The stone shops and inns along the street changed the farther Mat went from the Amhara Market. Silversmiths replaced cutlers, and then goldsmiths replaced silversmiths. Seamstresses and tailors displayed embroidered silks and brocades instead of woollens. The coaches that rumbled over the paving stones now had sigils lacquered on the doors and teams of four or six matched for size and colour, and more riders were mounted on prime Tairen bloodstock or animals as good. Sedan chairs borne by trotting bearers became almost as common as people afoot, and, afoot, shopkeepers in coats or dresses heavily embroidered around the chest and shoulders were outnumbered by folk in livery as bright as that of the chair-bearers. Often as not, bits of coloured glass now decorated men’s hair clips, or occasionally pearls or richer gems, though few men walked whose wives could afford gems. Only the cold wind was the same, that and the Street Guards patrolling in threes, eyes alert for trouble. There were not so many as in the Strangers’ Markets, yet as soon as one patrol strode out of sight another appeared, and wherever a street wider than an alleyway met the Street of Joy, a stone watchstand stood with two Guardsmen waiting at the foot in case the man atop spotted trouble. The peace was kept rigorously in Far Madding.

The Counsels’ Plaza was up ahead, right in the middle of the island, but there was nothing there except for the Hall of the Counsels, the Guardian that rested beneath it, monuments from more than five hundred years earlier, when Far Madding had been the capital of a much larger nation instead of the mere city-state it was now, and the countinghouses of the city’s wealthiest women. In Far Madding, a wealthy man was one whose wife gave him a generous allowance or a widower who had been provided for. It was forbidden for men to own property of their own, or to hold a job outside of the menial labour.

He’d been to the Counsels’ Plaza before, just for a nosey. It was a huge—he supposed it was still called a square, though this one was round, amusingly—a huge square paved with white stone. At the centre stood a great palace, a round structure all of white except for the tall blue dome on top, like half of a ball. Massive fluted columns surrounded the upper two levels below the dome, and broad white stone stairs led up to the second level on either side. Except for a pair of tall arched bronze gates at the front, the lowest level was all white stone carved with diademed women more than twice life-size, and between them, white stone sheaves of grain, bolts of cloth, stacks of ingots that might have been meant for gold or silver or iron or perhaps all three, and sacks spilling out what looked coins and gemstones. Beneath the women’s feet, much smaller white stone figures drove wagons and worked forges and looms in a continuous band. Far Madding women considered themselves masters of trade, and their palace was built to show it. Mat wasn’t sure he approved. His da was the best horse trader in Emond’s Field, and he’d always said that when people decided you were better at trade than they, they not only grew jealous, they became stubborn and tried to demand ridiculous bargains. Da said it was best to seem less well-off than you were when dealing with such people.

Mat turned aside from the road that led to the Counsels’ Plaza though, and limped his way downhill towards the river’s edge. As he rounded a corner, he caught sight of a lean ship flying the flag of Illian, and a smile bloomed on his face.  _ So long Far Madding. I won’t miss you!  _ was his first thought. His second was less joyous, for the ship’s crew looked to be getting ready to sail.  _ Blood and ashes! Wait for me! _

Abandoning his limp, Mat raced through the streets. The Guardsmen at the watchstand up ahead straightened, the man at the top taking his rattle from his belt. One of those at the bottom of the stand hefted his long cudgel, while the other lifted a catchpole from where it had leaned against the watchstand’s steps. The forked end was fashioned to catch and hold an arm or a leg or a neck, and the pole itself was belted with iron, proof against any sword or axe. They watched him closely, with hard eyes.

He nodded to them and smiled, then ostentatiously peered down the side street, searching the crowd there. Not a running thief, just a man trying to catch up to someone. The cudgel went back onto its belt hook, the catchpole returned to the steps. He did not look at the Guardsmen again. Mat raised his hand as if to hail somebody, then sped past the guards, dodging between people and street peddlers’ barrows. Hawkers displaying pins or needles or combs on their trays tried to catch his attention, or anyone’s, with their cries. Few people here wore embroidery, and a simple cord tying a man’s hair was much more common than even the plainest clip. These streets were cramped at best, and crooked, a haphazard maze where cheap inns and narrow stone apartment buildings of three and four stories towered over the shops of butchers and candlemakers and barbers, tinsmiths and potters and coopers. Coaches would not have fit along these streets, and there were no sedan chairs, either, no riders, and only a handful of liveried servants, carrying baskets on errands but strolling and looking down their noses at everyone around them except the Street Guards. Their patrols and watchstands were present even here.

The docks were positioned between two of the long bridges, each of which was as wide as the road that led to them, with low stone copings on the side that would stop a wagon from plunging over but give no shelter to attackers. They arched high, to allow ships to pass underneath, and tall towers flanked the iron-strapped gates that guarded entry to the island itself.

It wasn’t entry Mat wanted though. “Ho the ship!” he shouted as he came clattering down onto the stone docks. “The Bees! Illian! Bloody wait, stab your eyes!” None of the sailors paid him any attention, but a burly man that he took for a dockmaster turned to frown at him.

“What’s all that racket?”

“I want passage on that ship. I can pay! Double even!” Up ahead, the Illianer vessel was already pulling away from its dock.

“You’ll never make it,” the dockmaster said, but he was already cupping his hands to his mouth. “Aboard the  _ Spray _ there! Stop! The Light burn you, stop!”

The shirtless fellow at the tiller looked back, then spoke to a stocky companion in a dark green coat. The man never took his eyes off the crewmen just dipping the sweeps into the water. “Give way together,” he called, and sweepblades curled up froth.

“I’ll make it,” Mat snapped. He sprinted down the wharf, dodging around men and barrows stacked with cargo. The gap between the  _ Spray _ ’s stern and the wharf widened as the sweeps bit deeper. Hefting his quarterstaff, he hurled it ahead of him toward the ship like a spear, took one more step, and jumped as hard as he could.


	9. A Journey Long Delayed

CHAPTER 6: A Journey Long Delayed

The dark water passing beneath Mat’s feet looked icy, but in a heartbeat he had cleared the ship’s rail and was rolling across the deck. His trailing foot struck a luckless sailor in passing, and as he scrambled to his feet, he heard a grunt and a curse behind him. The shirtless steersman stared wide-eyed from him to Mat and back again, clutching the tiller as if wondering whether he could use it to defend himself from madmen.

The man Mat had kicked scrabbled away from him on hands and knees, then flung up his hands when he saw Mat looking at him. “Spare me!” he cried. “Take whatever you want, take the boat, take everything, but spare me!”

“Blood and ashes. Get a hold of yourself,” Mat muttered absently. He patted his pockets to make sure his purse was still there, and then plastered a friendly grin on his face.

The fellow who wanted to be spared scrambled away, while the steersman let his grip go lax. Too lax. Suddenly the ship lurched, and a swinging boom forced Mat, and several of the ship’s crew to duck hastily.

The stocky man in the green coat strode up the deck to glare at him. Long black hair fell to his thick shoulders, and his beard left his upper lip bare. Mat assumed he was the captain. He had a round face with a weathered complexion. Round but not soft. The boom swung out again, and the bearded man spared part of his glare for that as he caught it; it made a crisp splat against his broad palm.

“Gelb!” he bellowed. “Fortune! Where do you be, Gelb? You can no hide from me on my own ship! Get Floran Gelb out here!” Accent and beard named the man an Illianer, to Mat’s well-travelled eyes.

Two crewmen pushed a narrow-faced man ahead of them. Mat recognized the fellow who had offered him the boat. The man’s eyes shifted from side to side, never meeting those of the captain. A bruise was coming up on Gelb’s forehead where one of Mat’s boots had caught him.

“Were you no supposed to secure this boom, Gelb?” the captain asked with surprising calm.

Gelb tried to look surprised. “But I did. Tied it down tight. I admit I’m a little slow about things now and then, Captain Domon, but I get them done.”

“So you be slow, do you? No so slow at sleeping. Sleeping when you should be standing watch. No so slow at daydreaming, when you should be securing the rigging.”

“No, Captain, no. It was him.” Gelb pointed straight at Mat. “He knocked it loose.”

“My aged grandmother he did! I was standing right there!” Captain Domon roared. “Did I no warn you the last time Gelb? At Illian, off you do go! Get out of my sight before I put you off now.” Gelb darted away, and Domon stood opening and closing his hands while he stared at nothing.

Mat looked over the rail and was shocked to find the docks no longer in sight. Two men manned the long steering oar that stuck out over the stern, and there were six sweeps working to a side now, pulling the ship like a waterbug further out into the river.  _ She’s fast, this ship. My luck is still with me _ , he thought, smiling.

“I do no see what you have to be grinning about, lad. I’ve no room on this vessel for as much as a ship’s cat, and I’d no take vagabonds who do leap onto my decks even if I did,” said the captain. The two sailors who’d been manhandling Geld just moments before now came to stand uncomfortably near Mat. He wished he had his quarterstaff in hand. He could see it lying where it had landed, further down the deck. He tried to look sure and confident, the sort of man others had better not trifle with, a man with the power of the White Tower behind him.  _ A long way behind me, I hope _ .

“I’m looking for passage to Tear, by way of Illian. How much for one of the cabins?” Mat asked. “To myself. You can put whoever is in it now with someone else.” He did not want to sleep out on the cold deck. And if you don’t overwhelm a fellow like this, he’ll steal your breeches and say he is doing you a favour. His stomach rumbled loudly, and he spared a longing thought for the fish he’d been too proud to eat back at the inn. “And I’ll eat what you eat, not with the crew. And plenty of it!”

The captain stroked his half-beard; his dark eyes priced Mat’s plain coat to the copper. “So you do be wanting a cabin, do you?” He barked a laugh. “And my meals? Well, you can have my cabin and my meals. For five gold crowns! Andoran weight!” Those were the heaviest. He began to laugh loudly. The two sailors flanking Mat grinned wide grins. “For five crowns, you can take my cabin, and my meals, and I’ll move in with the passengers and eat with the crew. Fortune prick me, I will!”

He was still laughing and wiping tears from his eyes when Mat pulled out one of his two purses, but laughter stopped by the time Mat had counted five crowns into his hands. The captain blinked in disbelief; the two big crewmen looked poleaxed.

“Andoran weight, you said?” Mat asked. It was hard to judge without scales, but he laid seven more on the pile. Two actually were Andoran, and he thought the others made up the weight.  _ Close enough, for this fellow _ . After a moment, he added another two gold Tairen crowns. “For whoever you’ll be pushing out of the cabin they paid for.” He did not think the passengers would see a copper of it, but it sometimes paid to appear generous. “Unless you mean to share with them? No, of course not. They ought to have something for having to crowd in with others. There’s no need for you to eat with your crew, Captain. You are welcome to share a meal with me in your cabin.”

They were all staring at him now, the captain and the sailors alike. “Are you ...?” The bearded man’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Are you ... by any chance ... a young lord in disguise?”

“I am no lord.” Mat laughed. He had reason to laugh. The  _ Spray _ was well out into the river now. Far Madding and all those women who’d called him uppity and spoiled just for smiling at them were well behind him. And with gold in his hands, the captain no longer seemed ready to throw anyone overboard.

Domon’s round face swung toward Mat. “You come below,” he said, “where I can see what manner of thing be hauled up on my deck. Come. Fortune desert me, somebody secure this horn-cursed boom!” As crewmen rushed to take the boom, he stumped off toward the stern of the boat. Mat followed.

Captain Domon had a tidy cabin in the stern, reached by climbing down a short ladder. It was very tidy, almost too tidy so far as Mat was concerned. How could a man live like that? Even the coats and cloaks hanging from pegs on the back of the door were neatly arranged. The cabin stretched the width of the ship, with a broad bed built against one side and a heavy table built out from the other. There was only one chair, with a high back and sturdy arms, and the captain took that himself. A loud harrumph stopped Mat from sitting on the bed, so he settled for leaning hipshot against a wall.

“Now. My name be Bayle Domon, captain and owner of the  _ Spray _ , which be this ship. Now who be you and why should I no throw you over the side for the trouble you’ve brought me?”

_ Over—? I paid him! _ Mat made himself look innocent. It was something he’d spent many years practicing. “I don’t mean to cause you, or anyone, any trouble, Captain. I’m on my way to Illian, and then to—”

“Tear, yes. You did be saying. But I will no be taking you to Tear, man. The Tairens, they do no welcome the likes of me to their city. Fortune! They do no like us trading up the Arindrelle either, or I would be a much richer man than I am.”

Mat shrugged. He’d never been to Illian but by all accounts it was one of the greatest ports in the world. If Domon wouldn’t take him further than that, he was sure he could find another ship easily enough. “Just to Illian then. I’ll take care of the rest myself.”

“That be all very well, man,” Captain Domon said placidly, “but it tells me nothing. Less. Fortune prick me, how does a man dressed as you do be come to be carrying so much coin? And running to catch a ship? Running from who, I do be wondering? I no be wanting any bother with the Counsels.”

_ He thinks I’m a thief _ , Mat realised. That was a bit insulting. He was a thief, of course, but that was no excuse for this Illianer to be thinking him one.

“I won that money fair and square,” he said. “I even used their dice to do it with.”

Captain Domon drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “That be a tale many folk would no believe. Why should I no let you swim back where you came from, and be rid of you?”

“With a full coin purse, I assume. You being an honest man, and all,” Mat said, his patience fraying. “Look, Domon. We’re both men of the world, right? Even if I had stolen that money—which I didn’t!—the Street Guards are hardly going to chase after me, are they? Not outside of the city itself. It’s done and over with. Now’s the time to move on. Money for you, passage for me. Win, win.”

Domon studied him for a moment, then spread his hands flat on the table. “Bayle Domon be a reasonable man. And if you do look like trouble, at least you look like my kind of trouble.”

“I get that a lot,” Mat smirked.

Domon snorted. “As far as Illian,” he said, making a neat entry in a leather-bound ledger.

“How long will it take?” Mat asked.

Captain Domon’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Happen you think we be standing still, man? Fortune prick me, we be three, four miles downriver from where you came aboard already. My  _ Spray _ , she be a fleet little lass. We’ll reach Illian in less than a week.”

“I knew there had to be a reason I picked this ship,” Mat said. Other than it being the first one that was heading south, anyway.

The captain nodded along, well pleased to have his ship praised, as all captains tended to be. “The current helps, too. But it makes no nevermind. I’d no put in again tonight if my old grandmother was on the riverbank. I may no put in again at all until I reach Illian.”

Mat leaned forward interestedly. “You have had trouble of your own lately?”

Domon hesitated, eyeing Mat narrowly, but when he spoke he merely sounded disgusted. “Of a sort. What sort, be a question I ask myself often. Some fools did think they could rob me by claiming they be Darkfriends, if you can believe it. Demanded I hand over my valuables.” He snorted loudly. “I did have them thrown overboard. Darkfriends! I wintered in Saldaea once. Not my choice, but the river froze early and the ice broke up late. They say you can see the Blight from the highest towers in Maradon, but I’ve no mind for that. I’d been there before, and there always be talk of Trollocs attacking a farm or the like. That winter, though, there be farms burning every night. Aye, and whole villages, too, betimes. They even came right up to the city walls. And if that no be bad enough, the people be all saying it meant the Dark One be stirring, that the Last Days be come. But Darkfriends? I do no believe anyone could be so stupid as to worship the Dark One.” He gave a shiver, and scratched at his head as if the thought made his scalp itch. “I can no wait to get back where people think Trollocs be just tales, the stories I tell be traveller’s lies.”

Mat grunted sourly. “You and me both.” He meant to do it, too. And the Light burn all those who kept telling him he never would. But first, he had as assassin to stop.


	10. Spray

CHAPTER 7: Spray

The  _ Spray _ made haste down the Arindrelle. The wind came strong, and from directions that let Domon make good use of the sails. By night a man in the bows cast a tallowed lead by lantern light, calling back the depth to the steersman, while the wind and the current carried her downriver with the sweeps pulled in. There were no rocks to fear in the Arindrelle, but shallows and shoals there were aplenty, where a boat could go hard aground to remain, bows and more dug into the mud, until help came. If it was help that came first.

They did not put in to shore, neither by day nor by night. Bayle Domon drove boat and crew alike hard. He blistered the crew for sluggards at the oars and flayed them with his tongue for every mishandled line, in his low, hard voice. For two days that was enough to send every man leaping. Then men began to mutter about an hour to stretch their legs ashore, and about the dangers of running downriver in the dark.

The crew kept their grumbles quiet, watching out of the corners of their eyes to make sure Domon was not close enough to hear, but he seemed to hear everything said on his boat. Each time the grumblings began, he silently paced the deck, giving each man a hard stare.

For the first day or two Gelb’s wiry figure could almost always be found addressing any crewman he could corner, telling his version of the night Mat came on board. Gelb’s manner slid from bluster to whines and back again, and his lip always curled when he pointed to Mat trying to lay the blame on him.

“He’s a stranger,” Gelb pleaded, quietly and with an eye out for the captain. “What do we know of him?”

“Fortune, Gelb, stow it,” growled a man with his hair in a pigtail and a small blue star tattooed on his cheek. He did not look at Gelb as he coiled a line on deck, working it in with his bare toes. All the sailors went barefoot despite the cold; boots could slip on a wet deck. “You’d call your mother a Darkfriend if it’d let you slack. Get away from me!” He spat on Gelb’s foot and went back to the line.

The pigtailed man’s was the politest response he got. No-one even wanted to work with him. Gelb found himself relegated to solitary tasks, all of them filthy, such as scrubbing the galley’s greasy pots, or crawling into the bilges on his belly to search for leaks among years of slime. Soon he stopped talking to anyone. His shoulders took on a defensive hunch, and injured silence became his stance—the more people watching, the more injured, though it earned him no more than a grunt. When Gelb’s eyes fell on Mat, however, murder flashed across his long-nosed face.

Mat wasn’t too bothered though. Gelb was a weasel, and a friendless one at that. If there was going to be trouble, it would come from the captain, and Domon wasn’t as bad as his scowls and roars made him look. He took his meals in his cabin—well, Mat’s cabin until they reached Illian—and proved decent enough company when beyond his crew’s sight. The man liked exploring, and had plenty of stories to tell about the places he’d seen. Despite himself, Mat found himself looking forwards to Domon’s visits and the promise of adventure and treasure that his tales conjured. While listening to his descriptions of Bandar Eban and Ebou Dar, Mat silently promised himself that he would visit those cities himself some day.

Domon collected trophies of his travels, too. Those didn’t interest Mat so much, since almost all of them were just decorations. Statues and jewels and such, an unbreakable plate that had the old Aes Sedai symbol on it, useless stuff like that; worth a fair price if you wanted to sell them, but Mat had his own ways to make money. He could tell from the captain’s sour face that he wasn’t best pleased by Mat’s lack of reaction to his treasures.

The lightstick was what interested Mat most. It was as thick as Mat’s thumb, and nearly as long as Mat’s forearm. Just touching it was enough to make it glow, and though it gave off a little bit of heat, it was nowhere near enough to burn. It reminded Mat of the fireworks he had stored in his travelbag, but the lightstick was even better. At least, it was until Domon told him it had been made in the Age of Legends.

“Aes Sedai work,” Mat said disgustedly. He put the lightstick down with more force than the captain liked.

“Careful, man! There no be many of them left in the world,” Domon snapped.

This far away from Tar Valon, Mat could barely feel the presence of the Aes Sedai Joline, she who had tricked him into getting bonded as a Warder. But even barely feeling her bond was still feeling it too much for Mat Cauthon’s taste. “If I never see another thing that is linked to the Aes Sedai I’ll die a happy man,” Mat swore fervently. “Nothing good comes of the One Power and those that use it.”

The captain gave a dour grunt as he returned his treasure to its place in his cabinet. “Mayhap. But this still be useful despite. Could be someone else built it. Does no have to be Aes Sedai work, Fortune prick me. It no has to be that.”

Mat eyed Domon appreciatively. It had been far too long since he’d met a man who had a healthy distrust of the White Tower. While he was being held prisoner in Tar Valon he’d been surrounded by their lackeys. And though Andor had taken a harder view of the Tower in recent times, they were still too deep in the Aes Sedai’s pockets for Mat’s taste. It was a relief to be able to relax and talk to someone who saw things the right way.

After Mat told him as much, things got a lot friendlier between them. Domon started coming around more often. It turned out that they shared a taste for gambling as well, and had a similarly relaxed attitude towards the law. Domon danced around the topic a bit at first, but a few shots of rum were enough to get him to admit that he’d done his fair share of smuggling over the years.

“And why not?” Mat grinned. “It’s a more honest trade than the taxwoman’s.” Domon’s loud laughter suited his stocky physique. He was shorter than Perrin, and his hair was darker, but he reminded Mat of his old friend at times. To look at anyway. He had a hard time imagining honest Perrin working as a smuggler.

Mat wouldn’t have minded it though. If it hadn’t meant taking orders, at least. He told Domon as much, when he offered him a place among the crew, saying that he could use a man as quick and clever as Mat. The captain had seemed a bit more disappointed by Mat’s refusal than their brief acquaintance warranted, and Mat began to wonder about him.

Domon wasn’t a pretty man, like Rand, but he looked the sort of fellow who could bugger you silly if he wanted to ... and it had been a long time since Mat had been buggered silly. It could get pretty awkward, maybe even violent, if he was misjudging the man’s inclinations. So he found himself paying more attention to his words and reactions than he had been, while dropping a few subtle hints into their talk.

Despite worrying over the problem of Bayle Domon, Mat slept well on the journey south. So it was that the first bump of something against the stern on the fourth night of their trip barely registered on him. He paid no attention to a thump and scuffle from the deck overhead, or the tread of boots. The vessel itself made enough noises, and there had to be someone on deck for the ship to make its way downriver. But stealthy footsteps in the passageway leading to his door made his ears prick up.

He eased himself off the bed, hoping the cabin floor— _ Deck, floor, whatever it bloody is! _ —would not creak under his feet. The footsteps were right outside. Taking up his quarterstaff, Mat placed himself in front of the door and waited.

The door swung open slowly, and two cloaked men, one behind the other, were faintly outlined by dim moonlight through the hatch at the top of the ladder they had crept down. The moonlight was enough to glint off bare knife blades. Both men gasped; they obviously had not expected to find anyone waiting for them.

Mat thrust with the quarterstaff, catching the first man hard right under where his ribs joined together. He heard his father’s voice as he struck.  _ It’s a killing blow, Mat. Don’t ever use it unless it’s your life _ . But those knives made it for his life; there was no room in the cabin for swinging a staff.

Even as the man made a choking sound and folded toward the deck, fighting vainly for breath, Mat stepped forward and drove the end of the quarterstaff over him into the second man’s throat with a loud crunch. That fellow dropped his knife to clutch at his throat, and fell on top of his companion, both of them scraping their boots across the deck, death rattles already sounding in their throats.

Mat stood there, staring down at them.  _ Two men. Burn me! _ Despite the holes in his memory, he could easily recall a time when he hadn’t ever hurt another human being before, but now he found himself killing strange men in the night, and finding it horribly familiar.  _ Light! _

Silence filled the dark passageway, and he heard the thump of boots on the deck overhead. The crewmen all went barefoot.

Trying not to think about what he was doing, Mat ripped the cloak from one of the dead men and settled it around his shoulders, hiding the pale linen of his smallclothes. On bare feet he padded down the passage and climbed the ladder, barely sticking his eyes above the hatch coping.

Pale moonlight reflected off the taut sails, but night still covered the deck with shadows, and there was no sound except the rush of water along the vessel’s sides. Only one man at the tiller, the hood of his cloak pulled up against the chill, seemed to be on deck. The man shifted, and boot leather scuffed on the deck planks.

Holding the quarterstaff low and hoping it would not be noticed, Mat climbed on up. “He’s dead,” he muttered in a low, rough whisper.

“I hope he squealed when you cut his throat.” The voice was heavily flavoured with the accents of Tarabon, but it wasn’t one that Mat recognised. He’d had a run in with some Taraboners before—they’d been trying to kill Aludra but he’d stopped them and gotten his prized collection of fireworks as a reward. Had they come after him for that? “This boy, he causes us too much of the trouble. Wait! Who are you?”

Mat swung the staff with all his strength. The thick wood smashed into the man’s head, the hood of his cloak only partly muffling a sound like a melon hitting the floor.

The man fell across the tiller, shoving it over, and the vessel lurched, staggering Mat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shape rising out of the shadows by the railing, and the gleam of a blade. He spun the staff around in desperation, and the rising motion became a fall, leaving another dead man sprawled at Mat’s feet.

A babble of voices rose belowdecks as the ship swung again, the tiller shifting with the first man’s weight. Mat heard Domon’s voice from afar, roaring questions.

There was a rope tied to the stern rail. He unlimbered one of the deck lanterns and stepped over to it, shining the light down astern. At the other end of the rope was a small boat, its square lantern extinguished. Two more men stood among the pulled-in oars.

“The Great Lord take me, it’s him!” one of them gasped. He and his companion leaped over the side with great splashes. The sound of them thrashing away across the river was loud.

The river had to be half a mile or more wide. Mat doubted they would reach the shore, but for some reason he was not able to find any satisfaction in that.  _ Darkfriends. They’re after me again _ . How had they found him? He had been so blessedly free of the Shadow, ever since parting company with Rand, that he’d almost forgotten the crawling fear that came of always wondering if the man sitting across from you at the bar was one of the Dark One’s minions, or if the woman who smiled at you on the street was thinking of a tumble or licking her lips over what she could get for selling you to the Shadow. Now he remembered it all. And shivered from something more than the night air on his half-naked body.

“Fortune!” came a familiar shout from the hatch. “What happens here? There be dead men in the passageway! Wake! Wake, you lazy bums! We’ve been boarded!”

In no time at all, Domon and his crew were boiling up onto the deck, not a man of them clad in more than his smallclothes. Men dashed about the boat, bare feet thumping the deck, hauling on ropes, tying off some lines and untying others.

“Where be Yarin? Man that tiller before we run onto a mudbank!” Naked save for linen underbreeches, Domon took his own orders and dashed to the tiller, hauling the dead man off roughly as he pulled the long lever to put the course straight again. “Burn my soul, where did all these horn-cursed dead men come from, Cauthon?”

Despite their haste, the crew moved with the assurance of men who had done it all a thousand times before. They put on a brave show, but they kept glancing at the dead bodies and then at Mat. He didn’t like their looks.

Mat jerked his thumb towards the small boat being dragged behind them in the darkness. “River brigands, Captain,” he said tiredly. “I heard them sneaking about. They might have cut everyone’s throat if not for me.”  _ They’d definitely have cut mine _ .

“Brigands!” Domon exclaimed. “There be plenty of those about, but I did no expect it this close to Illian!”

The crew began to mutter about brigands and having their throats cut. One man cursed, loudly and abruptly. “Taft be dead, Captain! Andris and Ido, as well!” The curses came in a flood then, as Domon and his crew discovered the remains of the night shift. Mat hadn’t known any of the sailors who’d been killed, but he still felt a tense anger growing in his chest.

He walked stiffly to the hatch. Behind him, he heard one of the sailors mutter to another. “He’s a cold one. I never heard that Andor employed assassins, but burn my soul, he is a cold one.”

Mat stumbled down the ladder, stepped over the two bodies in the passage, and slammed the door of the captain’s cabin behind him. He made it halfway to the bed before the shaking hit him, and then all he could do was sink down on his knees.  _ Light, what game am I playing in? I have to know the game if I’m going to win. Light, what game? _

He hadn’t slept much, but he was unable to get back to sleep that night. He lay awake on the bed, staring at the planks above, as uneasy in his body as he was in his mind.

He kept his quarterstaff close at hand, too, just in case. So when footsteps sounded outside the door once again, Mat rolled to his feet and readied himself to fight.

But no assassin tried to ease the door open, instead a knuckle rapped on the polished wood and a low voice sounded. “Cauthon? Be you still awake?”

“I am. Come in,” Mat sighed.

Domon was still in his underbreeches. Thick black hair coated his chest, shoulders and round belly. He was still wearing the same frown he’d had when Mat left the deck, too. “Near a dozen members of my crew be dead. You did for these ... brigands. Did they say anything before they died?”

_ They said they were Darkfriends. And that they were looking for me _ , Mat thought. “Nothing,” Mat said.

“Fortune prick me! I must have done something terrible in a past life, to be cursed with luck like this.” Domon stumped into the room and over to the drinks cabinet, from which he fished out a bottle of rum. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed himself a pair of cups as well.

Mat shivered. If the actions of a man’s past incarnations decided how lucky he’d be, then what did that say about his own past selves? It was certainly a more welcome explanation than all that talk about “the Dark One’s own luck”. He wasn’t about to get into that now though, not with Domon. Instead, he pushed the door closed and went to join the captain at his, or their, table. Domon poured for them both, and then they downed their cups in unison. The rum felt pleasantly hot in Mat’s throat.

“There’s more to you than meets the eye, Cauthon. A fortune to spare, and deadly with a stick. You no be a farmer, that’s for sure.”

Mat snorted. “Oh? Well what am I then?”

“That I no can say. Apart from the obvious, anyway. You be a rogue of some sort. The kind of man who no can be tamed.”

He found himself standing taller. He and Domon were of a height, though the Illianer was much the heavier. They were both practically naked, too, and Mat was starting to wonder once more. “You’re part right. Plenty have thought they could tame me, but they’ve all been disappointed. Maybe I shouldn’t encourage it—too cute for his own good, that’s Mat Cauthon—but sometimes it’s fun to pretend, you know? Sometimes you want to just relax ... and go with the flow.”

“Aye. You no be wrong there.”

Domon had finished pouring them both a second cup by then. Mat downed his without breaking eye contact with the captain, waiting to see what he would do. Domon threw his head back as he drank. His frown had long since turned into something thoughtful, and when he’d finished his drink and looked back at Mat, it became decisive.

The captain’s broad palm came to rest on Mat’s bare hip. “You be a good looking man, Mat Cauthon.”

Mat didn’t flinch away from the touch. “I know,” he said, grinning.

That beard still looked comical to Mat, but there was nothing comical about Domon’s kissing. He had good, firm lips. It had been a long time since Mat had been with another man, and he was in the mood to be taken. Luckily for him, the captain was in the mood to do some taking. He hugged Mat hard, crushing him against his broad and fleshy chest as his lips worked their magic upon him.

Both men were soon hard, and in their state of undress there was no hiding that fact. Mat went at Domon’s underwear, and the Illianer did the same for him. They had to part to kick free of the last items of clothing, an act which led to Domon’s cock waving at him as it jutted out from beneath his round belly. It wasn’t as big as Rand’s or Perrin’s, but it had a nice thickness to it, one that promised the kind of stretching Mat had been hoping for.

“Grease?” He imagined a ship like this would have an ample supply of such.

Domon grunted. “I no be a moment.” He ambled off to rummage around in one of his chests, shamelessly displaying his wide and hairy backside in the process.

He came away with a jar of cloudy liquid, one that he dipped his fingers into before smearing the grease on his own cock. Mat knew the procedure, so he was already leaning over the table when Domon rejoined him.

He shivered when the captain’s thick and callused fingers began probing his back passage. He found himself recalling other times he’d felt that forbidden tingle. He and Perrin had had a regular thing going, back in Emond’s Field. Rand only visited town every once in a while, but Perrin, like Mat, lived right there. They’d been fucking each other’s asses at least once a week for years, up until the Trolloc attack that Winternight changed everything. He’d hardly seen Perrin since then, or anyone else from back home for that matter.

Rough hands on his naked hips and a stiff rod pressing against his hole disturbed Mat’s recollections. He pressed his lips together, but made the rest of himself relax as best he could, knowing what was coming. Even so, he was hard-pressed not to cry out when Domon thrust his cock hard against Mat’s tight ring. Mat had gotten unused to male company during his captivity, because it hurt nearly as much as the first time.

Domon was not a gentle partner. He kept knocking hard on the door until Mat was forced to let him in, and then he went right on making himself at home. A light groan finally escaped Mat’s lips when he felt the man’s balls slap up against his own.

“That be the stuff,” Domon sighed.

Mat squeezed his cheeks together and rocked his hips. “Like that, do you?”

A few experimental thrusts were his answer. “Aye, that I do.”

Domon buggered him hard and fast, just the way Mat wanted. The pained receded, leaving behind a pleasantly hot numbness. Soft grunts and the slap of flesh against flesh were the only sounds at first, but after a while Domon’s gasping breaths grew loud. When Mat looked back he saw that the Illianer’s round and sweaty face had gone almost red. He was blowing like a bellows.

He pushed himself upright, disturbing their rhythm but not disengaging. Mat took hold of the hands that still gripped his hips and began backing slowly up. Though confused at first, Domon let himself be pushed shuffling backwards in the direction of one of the chairs. He soon realised Mat’s intent, and deposited himself gratefully in the seat.

Still with an ass full of thick, hot cock, Mat bent over once again, lower this time, his hands and feet resting on the deck of the captain’s cabin. He pulled himself up, and then lowered himself, again and again, rubbing his ass up and down the length of Domon’s cock and stirring both their passions high. Domon petted his bottom appreciatively, but Mat’s own stiff manhood hung neglected between his taut thighs. He was too concerned with a different type of pleasure to care about the lack of attention there though. It truly had been too long, and it felt too good to be filled once more. He found himself riding the captain feverishly, as eager to feel the man’s hot come in his ass as Domon surely was to let it fly.

He soon got his wish. “Burn me!” Domon grunted. His sudden grip on Mat’s hips was almost painful, and the frantic jerking of his own hips told the tale plain. Mat smirked to himself. The position was exactly comfortable, but he didn’t feel at all tired. He told himself, firmly, that that was due to all the exercising he’d done on the practice field at Tar Valon, and not due to the damned Warder bond. The sudden spray of come inside him provided a welcome distraction from those thoughts.

Mat ran his ass up and down Domon’s cock a few more times to milk the last drops of come from him. When he felt the outpouring ease off, he straightened up. He regretted the sudden emptiness that left, but didn’t let it show when he turned to grin down at the captain sitting in his chair. “Happy to get your chair back, Domon? Just remember, until we reach Illian, this cabin is mine.”

“My name be Bayle, lad. Seems a bit odd, you calling me Domon after this.”

That was true, he supposed. “Call me Mat then.” The tiredness he’d forgotten, in the excitement of getting to know a new lover, crept back up on him, and he yawned expansively. He staggered over to the bed and sprawled atop the rumbled covers, his still-hard cock poking up towards his belly button. His eyes drifted closed.

“Enjoying my comfy bed, Mat?”

“You know it.” It was pretty nice, to be fair. He’d have slept comfortably if not for the desire to come that still nagged at him. He wondered what would be done about that ... then, after a minute, wondered no more. The bed shifted when Bayle’s weight came to rest on it, and Mat’s cock twitched when a callused hand closed around it. “I was wondering if you’d give a man a fair shake, Captain.”

Bayle snorted softly. “I try. I’ve done some things I no be proud of, but I try.”

A callused hand closed around the shaft of Mat’s cock. Mat relaxed, setting aside his worries and just letting himself enjoy the stimulation. It didn’t take long before his climax began to build inside him, and he certainly didn’t try to delay it. When at last he gritted his teeth in preparation, Bayle was quick to aim his member away from the bed. Mat sprayed his come all over the ship’s deck, and when the fountaining became a mere dribble, he sighed contentedly. “I needed this.”

He spent the night in the captain’s cabin. Or the captain spent the night in his cabin. Either way, they spent it together.


	11. The First Ship

CHAPTER 8: The First Ship

They told him he was the Dragon Reborn, prophesised to both save and destroy. He could channel tainted  _ saidin _ , the very stuff of Creation. He’d seen the Lines of If and the Seanchan Empire, stood against the Forsaken and run away from a girl he loved. But when he’d stood waiting on the banks of the River Alguenya, not far from the home he’d been driven from, Rand al’Thor hadn’t truly believed that a ship would happen by or deign to pick him up and ferry him south towards his fate.

They’d told him he was  _ ta’veren _ as well though, someone marked by the Pattern and guided by its needs. Rand supposed he should have felt blessed or grateful when the graceful, two-masted vessel dropped anchor and sent a rowboat across to see who the half-dressed stranger was, but his thoughts remained dour. At first, he hadn’t noticed it when the Pattern twisted chance around him and prodded him where it wanted him to go, but as time went by he’d gotten savvy enough to mark discrepancies like this, and come to resent its “guidance”. A man liked to be able to tell himself he had some say in what he did with his own life. It had grown very hard for Rand, stubborn as folk often told him he was, to believe that. Or to accept how powerless he truly was to affect the turning of the Wheel of Time.

He must have looked a sight, standing there alone with nothing to his name save his muddy boots and worn breeches. Certainly the folk who were rowed across seemed to think so, judging from the looks they kept shooting him.

They looked every bit as strange to him as he no doubt did to them though. Rand was no longer the sheltered farmboy he’d been when Moiraine first led him out of the Theren—he had seen any number of strange nations and their diverse populations—but he still had to school his face in order to avoid gaping at his new benefactors.

They were all black of hair and brown of eye, and even the lightest-skinned of them was as dark as the darkest person Rand had glimpsed in his travels. The darkest were so dark that he had to look carefully to see where the roots of their hair ended and their skin began. That was only part of what made them so eye-catching though, for their style of clothing was as bright as any Tinker’s he’d ever seen, if a lot more colour-coordinated. Men and women both, they displayed silk and gold on their persons with a casualness that would have done most ladies proud. Every last one of them had golden rings jammed into their ears or noses in ways that made Rand wince internally, and one woman even had a little gold chain running between a nosering and the lowest of the two rings in her left ear. It was a struggle not to stare at her.

When the rowboat drew close to shore, a pair of men, more roughly dressed than the others, vaulted out to stand in the river on either side of the boat. The water reached almost to their waists but they ignored that. They held the boat steady while the woman with the chain on her face stood up from her seat at the stern.

The way she balanced so easily on the water dredged up Rand’s memories of fleeing down the Arindrelle with Mat and Thom in a boat even smaller than the one she was in. Even moving about enough to swap places with his companions had been enough to bring his heart up into his throat back then. She obviously wasn’t afflicted with that queasiness though, and balanced herself easily. The blouse and trousers of rich green silk she wore, the red silk sash that she’d tied about her slender waist, and the abundance of gold jewellery she was adorned with would have made it plain that she was someone important even if her eyes didn’t hold such a commanding intelligence. She was studying Rand in much the same way he studied her, but he was sure he cut a much less impressive figure. She was relatively tall for a woman, and perhaps ten years older than him. Thick, curling black hair had been tied back from her face, and the small, pale scars above her full lips and through her right eyebrow didn’t come close to hiding how pretty she was.

Rand tried to blink himself back to sensibleness. What kind of fool wasted his attention on little things like that? Hadn’t he learned from the disaster at Emond’s Field? He couldn’t afford to get bogged down with the little things, or even more bodies would end up being piled around him, like Bornhald and his Whitecloaks had been, and like his Therener neighbours had almost been. He took a deep breath to focus himself, and made his voice pleasant. “Good morning to you, and well met. What brings you out on the river today?”

The stranger’s lips quirked in a brief smile. “Is that all you have to say to us? Are you lost, man? There are no ports for days north or south of here. Why are you wandering these shores? Surely you do not mean to swim to Mayene.”

“It’s Tear I need to get to; walking, swimming or otherwise.”  _ Callandor _ was there, the sword that only the Dragon Reborn could touch. If he’d had that, then maybe it wouldn’t have been necessary ... He could still smell the men burning, days later and miles away. Rand shook his head forcefully. “You wouldn’t happen to be heading there, would you?” he asked, already sure he knew what she would answer.

He was right. “I will be stopping at Godan in Tear to conduct some business. Do you seek the gift of passage?”

Rand smiled sardonically. “I would be very grateful, though I have to confess, I’ve misplaced my purse.”

She hesitated for a long moment, studying him once more. “Coin is only one type of gift. Perhaps I can think of another for you to give in return.”

He had little to no experience of working on a ship, but he would do whatever job needed doing, so long as she took him to where he needed to be. “I’m in your dept, my lady. My name is Rand al’Thor.”

She smiled. “Lady. We have no ladies among the Atha’an Miere. Rank is earned on our ships. I am Avaleen din Gronpre Hidden Blade, Sailmistress of  _ Liberty _ . The welcome of my ship to you, Rand, and the grace of the Light be upon you until you leave his decks.”

Rand gaped, despite his best efforts not to. The Sea Folk! He’d read about them in  _ The Travels of Jain Farstrider _ but he’d never expected to actually meet some, much less travel on one of their famous ships.

“Heller, Davis, help him aboard,” Avaleen commanded. She resumed her seat while Rand waded out to the boat, his boots getting a welcome cleaning at the cost of being filled with so much water that he had to strain to move his legs. One of the two Sea Folk men who’d been holding the boat steady had to help Rand haul himself over the side, to his embarrassment, but pride was the last thing he needed to be worrying about. He had a sword to claim, and a job to do. Nothing else mattered.

As the two sailors climbed back in with enviable ease, Rand glanced about at the other Sea Folk. There was only one other woman, younger, darker and much shorter than Avaleen, with half as many earrings. She busied herself with the tiller while two muscular men, one shorter than Tam, the other a few inches taller than Rand, worked the oars. The taller one’s hair had gone completely grey but his eyes were still sharp. He stared at Rand with grim suspicion. For his part, Rand tried to appear as unthreatening as possible, and never mind the inferno that he could summon down upon them all at a moment’s notice. Had he imagined Bornhald’s screams? There had been so many, how could he have separated one from the bedlam?

“You didn’t answer my question, Rand,” Avaleen said, once they were all arranged and the boat was on its way back to her ship. “What are you doing out here alone? You are too clean and well-fed to be flotsam of the sort I’ve seen in Godan and Cairhien.”

_ I’m alone because I deserve to be. Because any woman I was cruel enough to love, and who was mad enough to love me back, would suffer terribly for it. I’m alone because I ran away from her like the coward I am, and the monster I have to be _ . Rand said none of that aloud though. “I grew up not far from here, on the other side of the Waterwood in a place called the Theren. It’s a pretty sleepy place, where not much ever happens.” Other than the occasional Trolloc invasion, anyway. “But I’ve been dreaming of Tear lately, so I decided it was time to go for a trip.”

“You did not plan this trip very well,” Avaleen said wryly.

She wasn’t at all wrong about that. Rand gave an abashed shrug. “No-one has ever accused me of being wise.”

That amused her. “Nor I. They’ve accused me of many other things, but never that.”

_ Liberty _ managed to be both larger and more graceful than any of the ships Rand had seen before. In addition to the furled sails that hung from its masts, there were a pair of sails arranged sideways near a long spear-like piece of wood that protruded from the bow. Rand imagined that such things would have proper names, but what they were was beyond his knowledge and he didn’t want to act the bumpkin by asking.

More Sea Folk leaned on the railing or hung from the rigging to watch their Sailmistress return from the errand she’d assigned herself. Rand glanced surreptitiously at Avaleen, and wondered what she had been thinking when she decided to pick him up. She would have been blessedly ignorant of the Pattern’s part in dictating their actions, so what motivation had she used to explain to herself its urgings?

The sailors brought them smoothly into line with the  _ Liberty _ , and men above began lowering some kind of clamps on the end of steel chains. Heller and Davis stood again to receive the chains, and began attaching them to the boat. Avaleen didn’t give them orders, or wait to see what they were doing; she just stood up and smoothly hopped from the rocking boat to the rope ladder that hung nearby. Her trousers were quite loose, but he still glimpsed the globes of her bottom moving as she scampered swiftly up the ladder, the long braids gathered at her nape swaying in time with her steps. The short girl went next, blessing Rand with a similar show, before a grunt from the dour-faced older man told him it was his turn to make the ascent.

Rand climbed with a deal less grace than the Atha’an Miere, but he made the deck quickly enough. Then he paused, frozen by the sight of dozens of staring eyes in unfamiliarly dark faces. Suddenly, he knew the kind of self-consciousness he hadn’t felt since his earliest childhood, when some of the other children had decided that he was a good target for their meaner urges, what with his red hair and pale eyes. He’d been the only one in the Theren to have such colouring, and he was now the only person in sight who had anything even close to it as well. It was a strange thing. He’d discouraged the bullies of his youth with the liberal application of his fists, since he’d also grown to be taller and stronger than the average Therener. And he’d done that a long time ago, too. He’d have thought, with that being so and with all that had happened in recent times, that he’d be far beyond feeling the way he did just then. But here he was, having to tell himself not to shuffle his feet or lower his eyes. Madness. Firming his jaw, and trying to ignore the snippets of talk he heard from the sailors, Rand strode over to where Avaleen was conversing with a bald old man and a white-haired woman of impressive bearing.

The man had three heavy rings divided between his ears, while the old woman, if old she could be called, had three thinner golden rings in each of hers and a golden chain much like Avaleen’s running to another gold ring in her left nostril. She took it even further than Avaleen though, for she’d hung an array of small medallions from her chain. But that wasn’t what made Rand stare this time. While the woman’s long straight hair was as white as snow, she had the straight back and unlined face of a woman far younger than she presumably was. She was beautiful, too, if in an aloof and untouchable way. Unlike the other Sea Folk he could see, she favoured sombre colours. Her black silks were divided by a sash of bright yellow, and empathised the whiteness of her hair and the richness of her jewellery, adding to her majestic stature.

Such was the woman’s presence that Rand had been ready to ditch his earlier assumption that a Sailmistress was the Sea Folk equivalent of a captain, since surely the older woman had to be in charge. But as he drew near, he saw her nod her head respectfully to whatever Avaleen was telling her.

“As you say, Sailmistress. It will slow our passage, and I do not see the gain. But as you say.”

“I do, Windfinder. That and the other port disciplines will remain in effect until we leave Godan.”

“You are too fascinated by the shorebound peoples,” the old man said. “I sometimes fear it is my fault. I indulged your rule breaking too often when you were a girl. And after.”

Avaleen lowered her voice. “Not in front of our guest, father.” He didn’t bow to her rebuke, but instead touched his fingertips to his lips, and then reached out to touch the same fingers to her lips as well. No-one seemed to find that amiss, not even Avaleen.

Rand cleared his throat. “Well met. Thank you again for picking me up. I promise I won’t be a burden.”

The old man snorted. “You won’t eat or drink until we’ve crossed the Bay of Remara then? No? Don’t make promises you can’t keep, boy.”

Ashore, Rand could have provided his own food and drink, whether in the wilds or in the more civilised regions, though the former would be easier. Here on the ship ... “A fair point. I am in your debt. Is there any way I can work it off? I could pay for passage, but you’d need to wait until I can make contact with my, ah, friends.”

The other two stiffened, but it was Avaleen who spoke, and her tone was kind. “The gift of passage is not paid for, Rand. Another gift is simply given in return.”

“I see ...” Rand lied.

“But I am being a poor host. This is Rand al’Thor, a wanderer bound for Tear. And this is Agatay din Macan Sharp Eyes, my Cargomaster, and Ororo din Munrow Wind Rider.”

“It’s nice to meet you both,” said Rand. He essayed a smile, but Agatay remained as suspicious and Ororo as aloof as before.

“We can speak in my cabin, Rand,” said Avaleen, before the silence could get too uncomfortable. “This way.”

He followed her, though he was far from blind to the disapproving looks of the other two. Her subordinates, it seemed. One of whom was her father.  _ What is a Cargomaster? Or a Windfinder? _

An open hatch led to a narrow ladder, which in turn led to a richly furnished room, with windows across the stern. All the furniture seemed to be attached to the walls or the floor, even the padded chairs and the pink-upholstered sofa. A narrow bed lay beneath the windows, and the nearby writing desk was littered with papers, while the shelves, cleverly worked with wooden rails to prevent anything from falling off, held a number of carved and painted miniature statues. An open chest held a variety of clothes, not just the bright silks that Rand had seen on the other Sea Folk, but dresses, shirts, breeches, and coats cut in the styles of several Valgardan nations as well. Narrow, brass lamps, unlit at this time of day, were bolted to the walls, but the soot that stained them said they had seen much use.

Avaleen had watched silently as Rand studied her quarters. When he looked her way, her dark eyes rose to touch his briefly, before she turned away. Seating herself on the sofa, she gestured for Rand to take a seat of his own. “So. Earlier you spoke of repaying the gift of passage with work. I know that most of the shorebound do not sail. Are you one of the exceptions?”

Rand winced slightly. “Regretfully not. I’ve only ever been on a ship as a passenger. But if there are any unskilled jobs you need doing, I’d be happy to take them. I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty.”

“Is that so?” she said thoughtfully. It definitely was. Rand had grown up on a farm, after all, one of only two men living there. The work they’d had to divide between them had given him his broad shoulders, deep chest and flat stomach, and left him well-prepared for physical labour. Avaleen flicked a glance over his body, no doubt thinking the same. “I can think of ... quite a number of favours you might do for me,” she continued. “Here, and perhaps in Godan as well. But ...”

“But what?” Rand prodded, when she fell silent.

Avaleen shook her head. “That wouldn’t be a fair trade. I shouldn’t even have thought of it.”

Curiosity had a grip on him now. “Thought of what?”

She glanced at the hand that rested on the sofa beside her, and then to the windows, before shaking her head once again. “No. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a crazy thought. Is such colouring common in the place you grew up? The ... Fern, was it?”

“The Theren. Apparently, it used to be part of Manetheren, a long, long time ago, and the name stuck. But no. Most folk there have brown eyes and brown hair. My mother was an outlander.” Actually, both of his mothers had been outlanders, the one who’d given birth to him, and the one who’d taken him in and cared for him. They were both long dead now, too.

Avaleen pursed her full lips. “Manetheren. I’ve heard songs sung of that place. I hope you are not offended by my question. I’ve just never seen someone who looks as you do, not in Tear or Cairhien or any of the other ports I’ve visited.”

“It’s fine.” Rand said. He was tempted to leave it at that, but some insistently honest part of him demanded he continue. “I’ve done my share of staring at folk since I left home. All those strange fashions and colourings! The world is a much more diverse place than I ever realised.”

She smiled. “It is. You would not think it, growing up among the Atha’an Miere. It is all black hair, dark eyes, and various shades of brown skin with us. Whenever I visit a new port, I have to remind myself not to wander around as open-mouthed and foolish-looking as a fish.”

“I know the feeling! Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you,” Rand grinned.

“But you will work for me? And do whatever I tell you, while on my ship?”

He nodded his assent. It was only right, in the circumstances, though part of him railed, as it ever did, against the idea of being commanded by anyone. “You’re the boss. For now.”

“Good.” Avaleen stood, and smoothed her silk pantaloons with her hands. Despite what Rand had agreed to, she looked oddly nervous, chewing her lower lip the way she was. “Well, for now I suppose I should have a bunk arranged for you, and speak to my officers about what tasks you can perform. Unless ... no. We can speak of that other matter when we reach Godan.”

Rand didn’t know what she meant, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one. He rose from the chair, but then hesitated. “Should I do the lip touching thing? Like before?”

Her dark eyes widened, and she stared at him for a long moment before responding. “Are you thinking of the gesture my father made?” He nodded, and she let out a breath. “No, that is not a custom fitting to our relationship.”

“Sorry. I really don’t know much about the Sea Folk. I was just trying to guess my way.”

She waved a wand in gracious denial. “I am not offended. Be at peace, and go with the Light, Rand. We will speak again.”

* * *

The wind pushed her hood back from her face and streamed her rich blue cloak out behind her. It made a mess of her hair as well, and threatened to pull the  _ kesiera _ from its place at her brow. Moiraine Damodred cared not one single whit for those things. She whipped her beautiful white mare, Aldieb, with the reins, uncaring, too, of the horse’s distress at such rough treatment.

Her Warder, Lan, rode at her side now, rather than scouting ahead as he had when last they’d travelled through these lands. Back then, Moiraine had allowed a slower pace, knowing she had her long-sought quarry in hand, if not exactly which of the Theren youths she’d picked up he was. Now she knew that it was Rand al’Thor who was the Dragon Reborn. There were times she wished it were otherwise. As she sped down the road that led from the Theren to Baerlon, she silently cursed the Pattern for resting the fate of everything on the shoulders of such a stubborn fool. The doom of her life’s work now loomed before her if she did not catch up to Rand before he got himself killed.

She could feel Lan’s concern through the bond they shared. It flared highest when he looked her way. Foolish that. He was more worried about her welfare than the fact that the Dragon Reborn was sailing downriver on a strange ship, intent on assaulting the greatest fortress in the land all by himself. If Moiraine had had the luck of a  _ ta’veren _ , she might have stayed in the Theren long enough to wave down a passing vessel of her own. But  _ ta’veren _ she was not, and there was no way of knowing how long she might have had to wait. She’d have to make her own luck, as she always had.

Looking back at the group that thundered along in her wake, she stared hard at Loial, who forked a giant steed that he made look like a pony. The Ogier had seen them safely through the Ways before, but always in the company of at least one of the three  _ ta’veren _ . Now Rand was gone, Mat was off in Tar Valon, and Perrin had stayed behind in Emond’s Field. If her current dilemma was not so dire she would have devoted herself to steering him clear of that folly, but Rand’s welfare had to take priority. Did she dare attempt the Ways again? There were  _ stedding _ in the Mountains of Mist, each with Waygates of their own. Finding one would be simple enough. There were multiple paths leading up from Baerlon to the mines. The passage itself was the danger. If they fell to  _ Machin Shin _ , then who would stop Rand from ruining everything?

The party that followed her was much larger than she’d intended it to be, and few, if any, of the additions were welcome ones. The younger girls brought unnecessary complications, each and every one, if for different reasons. Raine Cinclare, a red-haired wolfsister who’d taken a fancy to Rand, might prove useful enough. Perrin and his abilities certainly had, though he was a rather more reliable sort of person than that wild girl. Of similar reliability was the  _ Tuatha’an _ , Merile. She’d been bound for the White Tower and a set of Novice whites when she’d decided, quite suddenly, that she’d rather attach herself to Rand’s entourage and help him “save the world”. That rebellion was another thing that Moiraine was sure she could have prevented if she hadn’t been faced with such a pressing danger to the Pattern. Just as she could have stopped the too-young Theren girl, Imoen, from coming along with them. But faced with a choice between taking the time to shield Merile and put her back in her place—all while bundling Imoen up and delivering her back to her mother’s slipper—or ensuring that Rand didn’t stay outside her supervision a moment longer than necessary, Moiraine had mounted up and ridden hard for Taren Ferry, leaving the girls to scamper after her if they could.

Or, she’d ridden to the ruins of Taren Ferry, at least. The Trollocs hadn’t left much of it intact, or many of its inhabitants alive. Imoen had wept over that. Moiraine had ordered Rand’s Shienaran armsmen to swim the river and repair the ferry as quickly as possible.

She’d have left them behind, too, if she could. They’d served well, but Rand had gotten too full of himself lately, too resistant to her guidance, and the presence of so many devoted followers was a good part of the reason for that. He needed to be brought back into line. The unwelcome addition of Tam al’Thor to their company had thwarted her plans. Rand’s father was a relatively unassuming man, but a veteran commander for all that, and one who carried the unique appellation of being father to the Dragon Reborn. She wondered if he knew exactly how much authority that could imbue him with. He certainly hadn’t looked surprised at how easily Uno and the other Shienarans fell into line when he asked them to accompany him to Tear. Had he thwarted her deliberately, or without realising what he was doing? Either way, he offered the greatest danger to her plans short of Rand himself.

But above all, above even Tam’s presence, Moiraine’s greatest vexation took the form of her own Sister, the Aes Sedai Alanna Mosvani. Dark, beautiful, and far too erratic, Alanna had taken it upon herself to bond Rand as her Warder, and in so doing had set off the chain of events that led them all here, galloping off in the opposite direction of their quarry. Not scowling at Alanna as she rode tested Moiraine’s training more than it should have. Never mind the immorality of what Alanna had done—bonding Rand against his will—she had turned what had been merely a smouldering suspicion of Aes Sedai into a fiery hate. How was Moiraine to guide him towards the Light’s victory at Tarmon Gai’don if every time he looked at her he was reminded of Alanna? Dark bruises still showed on the other woman’s throat from Rand’s recent expression of his regard for her.

She’d said none of that to Alanna, of course. The bond, however ugly it’s placing, offered them their best chance to track Rand down. Once they’d found him though ...

“The horses won’t be able to keep this up much longer,” Tam said needlessly.

“I am well aware of that, Master al’Thor,” she answered coldly. She didn’t relish having to dance this dance again, but it was the way of things. It had been so in the Royal Palace of Cairhien as well. Sometimes Moiraine wished she could have led a quieter life, that of a scholar like her father. But it was not to be.

The Ways, or the ship? It would take them weeks to reach Whitebridge. And several more days of travel waited after that, even with her summoning the winds to speed them on their way downriver to Tear. Either option offered dangers, but only one offered the likelihood of death.

Abruptly, Moiraine drew reign. Curses issued from the people behind her as they struggled to slow their own mounts. She did not deign to look back. Sitting straight in her saddle, she urged Aldieb to a walk. They should be able to reach Baerlon before dark. She and Alanna between them could Refresh the horses in preparation for the long ride to Whitebridge. A brief sleep would have to be enough to refresh themselves. She would allow no longer than that. They would leave before dawn.

The slightest twitch of Lan’s eyebrow was all the outward sign he gave of his thoughts on her sudden change of pace, but she still gave him a cool look, ready to quash any sign of humour. He had more of it than his stony visage revealed, as she had far too much cause to know.

“My bottom is sore,” Merile informed them all unnecessarily.

“I would become used to that sensation if I were you, girl,” said Alanna. She looked and sounded the very model of Aes Sedai censorship. Moiraine schooled her face to stillness. The woman had not even the decency to be ashamed of what she had done.  _ If I can, I will make it a point to be there when Siuan learns of this. A sore bottom is the least of the punishments that await her _ .

They’d long since outdistanced the two Aiel Maidens that had stayed behind when the rest of their people left in pursuit of Rand. Moiraine had no intention of waiting for them to catch up. That they’d been assigned to watch them for their commanders was quite plain. Their commanders’ intentions towards Rand were anything but.

“The al’Thor boy is still unharmed, Alanna?”

Moiraine stood higher than her, but the other Aes Sedai still gave her a cold look and waited an inappropriately long time before responding. “My Warder is unharmed, yes.”

_ Of course, she might not last long enough for Siuan to fillet her _ , Moiraine thought. But what she said was, “Good. To Whitebridge then, and with all possible haste. Lan? Scout the way.”


	12. Among the Sea Folk

CHAPTER 9: Among the Sea Folk

Rand spent most of the voyage downriver hauling supplies back and forth. Sailors needed rope and canvas, the ship’s cook needed any number of supplies, the officers writing materials. He brought all that was requested to those who requested it, and learned a great deal about the  _ Liberty _ in the process.

When he’d first been assigned the task, he’d expected to work under the Cargomaster, simply based on the man’s title, but instead he was directed to one Jeraldeen din Gronpre. A slender and reserved cousin of Avaleen’s, she was the ship’s Supplymistress and kept a precise tally of everything that wasn’t meant for trade, from nails and pitch and oil, to fresh water, fruits and paper. Smart and serious, none of Rand’s attempts at friendliness ever won him more than a cool look from Jeraldeen.

The Hullmaster, Chonsee, a big-bellied and bald-headed man with a messy black beard, who was responsible for overseeing any repairs to the ship while she—or he, rather—was out of port, proved no more willing to be won over than Jeraldeen or Agatay, but others among the crew were more friendly. Even some who did not appear so at first.

Ala din Pone Squall Tamer was the  _ Liberty _ ’s senior Deckmistress. Her short, curly hair had gone almost completely grey, and a life outdoors had weathered her skin as surely as her fondness for the pipe had weathered her voice. But though she was loud and demanding with the crew, and tolerated no nonsense from anyone, she hadn’t scorned Rand’s honest appraisal of his lack of sailor’s skills when he’d asked if there was anything he could do. She gave him only the simplest of tasks, of course, but so long as he made a proper effort at them, Ala kept her rough tongue to herself. She even deigned to share a smoke with him, on an evening or two, for which Rand was duly grateful. His pipe was another thing that he’d left behind in his haste to flee Min’s too-sweet embrace.

The Sea Folk kept a tight discipline on their ship, but it didn’t require much effort from Avaleen or the Deckmistress to enforce it. Even the Mistress of the Law, Tuva, who always prowled the deck with her ornate-handled whip coiled about her waist, didn’t seem to do much in the way of intimidating of her fellow crewmembers. Certainly, Rand never saw her actually use that whip on anyone. No, the Sea Folk all seemed quite familiar with their tasks, and quite willing to perform them without the need for oversight from their officers.

“Well, we’re almost all from the same clan. Clan Somarin,” Jimena explained one day, while she sat cross-legged on the deck, knotting the rope he’d brought her. “Many of us are even from the same families, so we all know what to expect from each other. The officers only need to get involved if someone has a falling out, or if there are new hands among the crew.”

“Like you?”

She looked surprised. “I’ve been on the  _ Liberty _ for three years now, since transferring from my grandmother’s ship. I’m not new.”

Rand dismayed. Jimena had been one of the first Sea Folk he’d met, and remained one of the friendliest. How was he to explain that, with her short stature and boyish figure, he’d assumed she was still a little girl? “Well, maybe I should smile more, too. It keeps you young.”

White teeth flashed in her dark face when she grinned. “It wouldn’t hurt you. You have a nice smile. Use it on the Sailmistress and you might not have to work so much.”

He grunted sourly, displeased by the idea of pretending to be something he wasn’t. Forcing a smile when he wasn’t happy just didn’t seem right to Rand.

“Look alive,” Jimena whispered before he could frame a response. “Sten.”

It was the tall man with the grey braids that she spoke of. Like Jimena, he’d been on the boat that first picked Rand up. Unlike Jimena, he never smiled.

“Shorebound. Jeraldeen has tasks for you. Which you should know without my having to tell you,” he said in his gravelly voice.

“I’ll go see her at once. The work never ends, huh?”

Sten walked with him as he made his way towards Jeraldeen’s post, just outside the cargo holds. “You call this work? These are tasks usually reserved for children.”

Rand couldn’t help but flush. That got him strange looks from many of the Sea Folk that they passed. He often got such looks. His colouring was so different from theirs that it was hard not to feel like an outsider. And the idea that he’d been doing a child’s work certainly didn’t help to make him feel more comfortable.

He set his jaw. “Why so hostile, Sten? I’ve done nothing to you.”

“You think me hostile?” Sten said grimly. “Many people have said that of me. I do not understand it. If I were indeed hostile, you would be bleeding.”

Rand eyed the heavy, curved sword at Sten’s waist. The man was tall and strong, and he suspected he’d know how to use that thing. But even though Rand’s own sword was back in the Theren, he was not afraid. He had other ways to deal with Sten, if it came to that. He’d much rather it didn’t come to that, of course. For one thing, Sten was the Junior Cargomaster, the man who’d take over for Agatay should anything render him incapable of doing his job. Even if Rand won that fight, he’d likely alienate the rest of the Sea Folk. And he needed their good will to get to Tear.  _ Callandor _ was there. His duty and his destiny. That was all he could allow to matter now. Not anything else. Not even Min.

Silence was his shield against Sten’s barbs. But they dug into his skin, and he hauled the rest of the supplies with a grim and unfriendly countenance that day.

It lingered in the days that followed.  _ Liberty _ was a fast ship, one that cut through the water in a way that put shame to the other ships Rand had travelled on. It didn’t take long for them to reach the mouth of the Alguenya and pass into the Bay of Remara. Avaleen took the deck in person then, something that she usually delegated to the Junior Sailmistress. She eyed the islands they approached suspiciously, and had  _ Liberty _ steered well clear of them.

Rand watched her as carefully as she did the Bay. He’d seen Avaleen often in the past days. On many such occasions he’d thought she was watching him, but she always looked away when he met her eye. She certainly wasn’t watching him now.

Agatay and Sten appeared, too, backed by a group of Atha’an Miere carrying longbows. They wore quilted coats and each man or woman had a full quiver of arrows strapped to their backs. Rand’s concern grew, and his suspicions were confirmed when Sten came to stand beside him.

“Pirates infest these islands. The Tairens and the Mayeners do not dispose of them as they should. The Mistress of the Ships would never allow such vermin to squat on  _ our _ islands,” he said, planting his own bow before him. It was of a proper length, to Rand’s eye, though thinner than a good Theren longbow would be. He wondered at its range and stopping power. And he hoped it would be enough, for he didn’t want to have to use the One Power.

“Are they going to be a problem? Have you had to fight them before?”

“No. And yes.”

“Will this make our passage quicker or slower?” He hoped it would be quicker. He wanted to get to Tear as soon as possible, just to get this over with. He dreamt of that damned shining sword every night now.

“Slower, of course. What manner of fool would rush headlong into hostile waters?”

Rand felt such a rush of relief that he forgot to be annoyed by Sten’s attitude. Then he frowned.  _ Why am I relieved? They’re slowing me down when I want to go fast _ . But the feeling lingered, mixed now with a profound sense of unease.  _ The Pattern tugs at me again _ .

“The Mistress of the Ships,” he said, trying to take his mind off it. “Is she like your queen?”

“The Atha’an Miere have no queens.”

“What do you have then?”

“Little patience for endless questions.”

“I’m a bit short of patience myself,” Rand muttered, and walked away.

He went to the starboard railing, where the densely packed tress that made up the Forest of Shadows could be seen in the distance. The white-haired woman he’d seen before was standing there talking to a skinny little girl.

“... could I at least use a bow? I hate the idea of just standing around watching!” the girl was saying.

“Mind your words, child. We have company,” her elder warned. Ororo was the woman’s name. Rand knew little of her beyond that, for she’d stayed well clear of him since he came aboard.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, “I’m just wondering about these pirates I heard of.”

Ororo did not look on him with the scorn Sten did, but there was such a reserve to her that she might as well have been surrounded by a shield of Air. “There is no need for concern,” she said. “We have extensive experience in dealing with pirates. It has been many years since an Atha’an Miere ship fell to such.”

“That’s good to know.” Hopefully there would be no need for him to expose his secret then.

It was hard to tell with Ororo—she was as still-faced as any Aes Sedai—but he thought he saw a slight frown between her white brows. The girl with her scowled openly. “It will be harder with you around.”

“Vicky! Enough!” Ororo said, her voice ringing with command. Unsurprisingly, the girl fell silent and turned her eyes to the deck. “Pay no heed to the words of children, Rand. They often lack manners, and discipline. I will ensure this one does not trouble you further. You should speak to the Sailmistress. If she is not too busy, and the Light is willing, she might be able to explain more to you.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard one, but how exactly he could be blamed for making things harder for them he could not guess. He didn’t press though, conscious of how much of an intruder he already was and wary of losing his ride to Tear. Rand gave Ororo and Vicky the privacy they plainly wanted but he didn’t take the woman’s advice, being reluctant to approach Avaleen while she was working.

The concerned suspense he saw among the Sea Folk proved unwarranted that day though. Avaleen’s hawkish stare almost dared them to show, but no pirates emerged from the wooded islands they passed. Slowly her tension eased. She went from watching the Bay to patrolling the deck, her dark eyes taking in every detail and sending sailors scurrying about their tasks even more quickly than usual. Even the officers, almost all of whom were older than her, were affected. He wondered how she’d come to be Sailmistress. She wasn’t as young as he was, but she was far from old.

When her patrol brought her close to Rand, she stopped and folded her arms, once more frowning out at the islands they passed.

“Your crew seem confident they can deal with any threat that emerges,” he said.

“We’ll win. But there’s always the risk of casualties.”

Rand nodded, thinking of all the Shienaran armsmen who had fallen on the long journey east from Falme. He thought it spoke well of her that she’d be concerned about that, and said as much.

She didn’t smile at the compliment. “Thank you. But that’s the very least that a Sailmistress should do. Not that I wanted to be one really.”

“I agree. It’s just that a lot of others don’t. Or maybe I’m just getting cynical.”

“No. I’ve been to Tear. I know exactly what you mean.”

Rand was intrigued by that. He needed to know everything he could about that place if he was to fulfil the prophecies, but all he really knew was that  _ Callandor _ was there, hidden away in a mighty fortress. “What’s it like? Tear I mean.”

“Lots of poor people. A few rich people,” Avaleen said. Her lips twisted in distaste. “Which is true everywhere, but none of the rich ones seem willing to use their money to improve things. The streets were filthy and not even paved. The harbourmasters openly ask for handouts just to do their job properly, the guards are heavy-handed. And when an honest merchant asks for justice she gets sent to speak to a High Lord who barely knows his own laws, and cares not a whit to enforce them.”

He got the impression she was speaking from experience. “What did you need justice for?”

Avaleen blinked. “Me? I wasn’t trading. That’s the Cargomaster’s job. We have very strict roles while we are on the ships. Not like you shorebound, prancing about doing whatever you please.”

She sounded regretful, but Rand was more concerned with her description of the “shorebound”. “I don’t know that I ever did any prancing,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“No? Perhaps you should,” Avaleen laughed.

“I’ll pass. I get enough laughs for doing kid’s work here.”

Her expression turned serious all of a sudden and her eyes slid away from his. “Is there a different kind of work you’d prefer?”

“No, it’s fine,” he said hastily. “I’ll do whatever I need to, to get to Tear. I don’t mind being laughed at. Or I can tolerate it, at least.”

When her eyes finally rose to meet his again, she parted her full lips as though to speak but no sound emerged.

“You said you didn’t want to be a Sailmistress,” he said, to break the silence. “How did you become one then?”

She took a deep breath. “I’m good at it. And I certainly don’t mind being one; it’s just that I have other interests.”

“Such as?” When a warning look suddenly appeared on Avaleen’s face, Rand raised his hands. “Never mind, I don’t mean to pry. I was just curious.”

“Well. I suppose it would be pretty hypocritical of me to scold anyone for that,” she said wryly. “But be careful. Too much curiosity can get you in trouble.”

She left him then, and went back to her patrol. To Rand’s relief there was no pirate attack that night but his sleep was still troubled, down below decks in the hammock that he’d been loaned. And it wasn’t just  _ Callandor _ that he found himself dreaming of holding.

The attack came two days later, just as the sun was painting the waters of the Bay of Remara in a golden sheen that reminded him of Elayne. He’d been leaning on the ship’s rail soaking in the beauty before him when he first noticed them, half a dozen beetle-like things crawling towards the  _ Liberty _ , spoiling his moment. It wasn’t he who raised the alarm; he was still squinting into the light, wondering what it was he was looking at. No, it was Sten whose voice shattered the peaceful sunset.

“Raiders off the starboard bow! All hands prepare for battle!”

Rand had seen enough gawkers felled by enemy arrows by now. He ducked behind the railing immediately, thinking to himself that a tall, pale oaf standing with the sun in his eyes would make for a particularly tempting target. He was right, too, for no sooner had he taken cover than a pair of shafts whisked past the spot where he’d been standing. He snarled silently, and was a heartbeat away from seizing  _ saidin _ before he remembered where he was.

Peeking through the gaps in the railing, he managed to catch a better look at the pirate ships. They were much smaller than the  _ Liberty _ , with only one mast each, and their decks were lower to the water. What speed they lost for lack of sail they seemed to be trying to regain with an abundance of oars. They reminded him of centipedes. He’d never liked centipedes.

“Spilt up, half of you to the bow, the rest to the stern. Fire from whichever direction they aren’t focusing on,” Avaleen commanded.

When Rand looked her way, he found her confronting an assemblage of longbow-carrying Atha’an Miere. They were mostly men, but more than a few female sailors stood among them as well. Avaleen was the captain, or the Sailmistress more properly, but the crew exchanged odd glances rather than rushing to obey her orders as they had throughout the journey south. Her grip tightened on the hilt of the dagger at her waist.

Agatay cleared his throat as he approached. “The swords are drawn, daughter. The command is mine now.”

“Then defend our ship! The longer we waste on this, the closer they get,” she said sharply, before showing him her back.

Rand thought that a bit rude but he had more important things to worry about. His hands itched for the bow he’d left behind. Bare feet thudded against smooth planking as the Sea Folk rushed to the positions Agatay assigned them. The same ones they had refused to rush to at his daughter’s word, it turned out. Keeping low, Rand could only watch as the fight played out.

Sten took charge of the sailors at the stern, close to where Rand crouched, while Agatay went back with the others. A fierce exchange of arrows ensued. Not fire arrows, thankfully. The pirates wanted to capture the  _ Liberty _ , not burn him. Their ships put on speed, the oars rising and falling at a furious tempo, while men crept forwards carrying grappling hooks on the end of long ropes.

The Sea Folk fought with great discipline. Their archers fired in three ranks, with two crouching out of sight of the men on the smaller ships while the third stood to return fire. Their volleys felled many pirates, while the sporadic attacks from below didn’t find a single target. At least at first. Somewhere down among their enemies was a man with half a brain, for the shots slowed after a while, almost stopping, until one of the Sea Folk ranks stood, right on schedule. Then the arrows that had been held back all came at once.

Screams sounded from the sailors who were hit, and then more wails came from their crewmates. They were almost all from the same clan, he remembered Jimena telling him. Family. Rand stared, but he couldn’t see the strangers. The downed archers he saw were not dark-skinned and colourfully clothed. They were drab of dress, paler, with brown hair. They were the friends and neighbours who’d so recently had to watch their kin fall to Trolloc blades while Rand played the fool, refusing to use the Power to save them. To destroy.

_ Burn me. Burn them. Burn everything. BURN IT ALL! _

A sudden fury rose in him, one that shocked and frightened him with its intensity. He wanted to do violence, but not against the Shadow, as was only right and proper. No, he just wanted to hurt something. As he struggled not to hear the seductive call of tainted  _ saidin _ , Rand crawled over to one of the fallen sailors. He recognised him, for he was one of those who had picked him up at the edge of the Waterwood. The weeping man kneeling over him had been there, too, and there was enough of a resemblance between them that Rand could guess at the truth. He was too grief-stricken to object when Rand relieved his dead brother of his quiver, and then picked up his bow.

He nocked an arrow but did not fire. He had a different kind of battle to win first. One against himself. Rand pictured the flame in his mind and fed all of his anger into it. His imagination tried to betray him, insisting that anger and fire were one and the same, and that one could not destroy the other. But he refused to be beaten by that old fancy. Into the flames went all of his emotions, leaving only the void.

He didn’t join the Sea Folk in their disciplined volley. While wrapped in the void he could recall the positions of each of the attackers he’d glimpsed before, so he drew the bow, popped his head above the rail, and put an arrow through a stranger’s chest. Then another and another and another, each shaft finding its target perfectly despite the unfamiliar weapon he wielded.

Grappling hooks dug into the  _ Liberty _ ’s hull but did not stay attached for long. Those sailors who were not assigned to archery rushed forwards with knives and handaxes to cut the lines free. None fell that he could see, for they coordinated their actions with the archers, only moving to cut the lines when a new volley of arrows flew from their kin’s bows. Jimena was among them, moving as swiftly and precisely as she did when working the rigging. Ororo’s young friend was there, too, somewhat more surprisingly. Vicky shared the more menial tasks with the rest of the crew but she was usually excused from anything dangerous, no doubt due to her age.

Rand noted it all with cold dispassion as he sent arrow after arrow flying down at the pirate ships. Emotions were distant in the void. Neither Sten nor Agatay were emotionless, judging from their shouted commands. And Avaleen certainly wasn’t. She cursed up a storm each time one of her people was hit, dead or wounded, it made no difference. She stood well back from it all, as their laws seemed to demand, but she stood with her hands in fists and a snarl on her face.

No particular deed capped the day’s victory, not that Rand could see. There simply came a moment when the pirates’ casualties became too great and someone called for a retreat. There was little resistance to the order. And less mercy from the Atha’an Miere. Though the pirates fled, they did so under a continuous hail of arrows that struck many more of their number. Rand could remember a time when he would have found fault with that, back when he was more of a sheltered fool than he was now. Those pirates that escaped this fight would simply find easier targets to prey on. He joined the others in sending some parting gifts after their attackers, and tried to ignore the childish shame that crawled along the edge of the void. It was one of the many feelings he’d have to ignore if he was to succeed at the tasks before him.

When the image of Min’s face flashed before his eyes, Rand was glad of the void. It spared him from the worst of the guilt. How could he have left her like that? How could he have touched her like that? Foolish sheepherder.

_ No.  _ Callandor _ is all that matters now. Don’t think about her, or the others. Just do your job, Dragon Reborn. Then die before you hurt anyone else _ .

He stood staring sightlessly after the fleeing pirates for some time before he became aware of his surroundings again. Ala turned and walked away, looking disgruntled about something. She was well gone by the time it occurred to him that she must have said something while he was woolgathering. He’d have to make it up to her if he wanted a good smoke any time soon.

The Atha’an Miere were attending to their dead and wounded. Now that the fighting had stopped, Avaleen was once more asserting her command. She gave orders to her father, who accepted them with more grace than Rand could have if she’d been his daughter. His acceptance didn’t unclench Avaleen’s hands, or wipe the snarl from her face.

Vicky had made of herself a little island of stillness in the stormy sea of activity. That drew his eyes, but it was her expression that held it. She glared at him as though he’d done her wrong somehow. Rand, who had barely spoken to her in his time on the ship, glared back. Her expression only heated, becoming a scowl that well suited her wild black hair, which stuck out in every direction.

“As if I don’t have enough to be dealing with, without random girls starting trouble for no reason,” he muttered to himself. Her gaze travelled down to the bow held at his side, and he recalled her being forbidden to use one. Perhaps that was it. Though, again, he couldn’t see how that was his fault.

“You are not quite as callow as I thought. That is ... unexpected.”

He turned at the sound of Sten’s voice, and found the grey-haired man regarding him expressionlessly. He had his bow in hand, and his thick sword hung at his side.

“Callow? You thought I was callow?” Mad and possibly a threat, that he would have expected. But callow?

“You sound surprised. You must have heard this before. You’ll get over it. Eventually.”

Well maybe he had heard it before. Moiraine certainly thought him so. Nynaeve and Egwene had, too. The Women’s Circle. Lan. Lord Agelmar. Probably some others.

“Most keep it to themselves though. At least where I came from. Most of the Sea Folk I’ve met do the same. But not you. Puzzling that.”

“What is there to be puzzled by? I am a simple creature. I like swords. I follow orders. There is nothing else to know about me.”

Rand snorted. “I don't think you’re that simple.”

Sten gave him an ever so slight nod. “As I said, you are not as callow as I thought.”

“Undisciplined,” Agatay proclaimed as he joined them. “A good crew must work together. You were lucky that grandstanding didn’t get you killed.”

“I’m not sure what part of ducking behind cover for the majority of the fight qualifies as ‘grandstanding’, but I’ll try to learn from the mistake,” Rand said, only to wince at the sound of his own voice. He was supposed to be keeping these people on his side. Getting as smart-mouthed as Mat would hardly help. The quiver he’d already discarded, so he handed the bow over to Agatay by way of a peace offering.

The old man grunted. “Well. You can shoot, at least.” He added the bow to the growing collection that Tuva, their Mistress of the Law, was gathering. The bows were left in her charge when the ship was not under attack.

Just as the ship itself was left in Avaleen’s. To her fell the unwelcome task of seeing to the dead while she ship’s Surgeon saw to the injured. Rand stood apart from it all, a stranger in the crowd. He watched them grieve for their fallen, whom they wrapped in sailcloth before consigning to the sea. He watched Ororo take Vicky aside and have stern words with her, words which the girl sulked visibly over. He watched Sten patrol the deck with his hand clutching the hilt of his sword, and a scowl on his face that suggested he hoped the pirates were fool enough to try again. He watched Avaleen as well, whose scowl spoke of a frustrated anger to match Sten’s.

Oddly enough, despite all the duties she was attending to, he got the impression she was watching him, too. Whenever there came a moment that she was not giving orders to her crew, her dark eyes would flicker his way consideringly. Then she’d set her jaw, or shake her head, or frown to herself. But always, when she had a quiet moment, that gaze would come back to him. Rand couldn’t see how she could blame him for the attack but he worried that she might be considering putting him off the ship.

The sun had set by the time the Atha’an Miere had finished seeing to their fallen. Avaleen ordered  _ Liberty _ kept well away from the small islands that dotted the Bay of Remara as they made their way cautiously south, before formally handing over command to the Junior Sailmistress, a stocky woman named Jacaline din Obrai Fog Runner.

The night air was cold on his naked chest, so Rand decided to seek out his hammock. As always, his boots sounded unnaturally loud on the Sea Folk soarer’s deck. The Sea Folk themselves went barefoot, even the officers. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised then, by the sound of her voice, but Rand shamed himself by jumping when she whispered his name from the dark.

It took him a moment to gather himself enough to respond. “Avaleen? Is that you?”

“Yes,” said a shadow lurking near the stairwell that led to the crew quarters. He could see no more of her that. “I ... I wanted to speak to you.”

“You’re the Sailmistress. You could do that anytime.”

“Yes, but ... Well, I know I could. I could do whatever I want. I just ...” She sounded upset, which was only to be expected after what had happened.

Rand wracked his brain for words of comfort but could find none that didn’t sound trite to him. He still felt a stranger among these people. In the end all he could say was, “I’m sorry for your losses. If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

There was a long pause before Avaleen spoke again. When she did, it was with a voice of sudden resolve. And of command. “Come with me. There’s something I want to speak to you about. In private.”


	13. Mistress of the Waves

CHAPTER 10: Mistress of the Waves

The Sailmistress led Rand to her quarters in silence. Slipping inside, she gestured impatiently for him to follow, and locked the door once he’d obliged. There she hesitated once again. Her curly black hair was bound at the nape of her neck by a red ribbon, and that was all he could see of her, for she kept her face turned to the door.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing. Light, everything. I shouldn’t even be thinking about this.”

“About what?”

“You said earlier you were embarrassed to be doing kid’s work.” There was a long pause before she continued. “There’s a ... man’s job that you could be doing instead.”

Rand frowned. “Archery? I’d be happy to defend the  _ Liberty _ in case of another attack. I’d be defending myself, after all.”

“Yes. I’m glad you see it that way. Not all our passengers have. But that’s not what I meant. There’s a job that a man as handsome and exotic as you would be uniquely well suited to.”

Ignoring his trepidation, Rand said what he knew he needed to. “I’ll do whatever I have to, to get to Tear.”  _ Callandor _ was calling.

Avaleen let out a shuddering breath. But when she turned to face him, she didn’t look at all as nervous as she had sounded. The lamplight lit her eyes like pools of dark oil. “Then lie down on the bed, and take off your clothes,” she said.

His brows rose in surprise. She was a very attractive woman and normally he’d have been pleased to be propositioned by her, but this seemed to come out of nowhere. He opened his mouth to ask what had come over her, but then it all clicked together. A job. A job that was usually limited to handsome men alone. He’d seen a ... shop of sorts, in Valreis, where such men had plied their trade. He’d even been offered a job there. As a whore.

Rand’s words died on his tongue and he felt his cheeks colour. If anything, Avaleen’s gaze heated up. And now that he’d put the pieces together, he couldn’t help but see her desire. Well, he had said he’d do anything to get to Tear and fulfil his destiny. He just hadn’t expected to be asked to do ... that. He remembered the offense and outrage he’d felt when he’d been offered that job before. It was still there, that feeling that trading in and cheapening such intimacies should be beneath even someone like him. But he’d resolved, when he fled Min and the Theren, that he would devote himself only to fulfilling the prophecies from now on. Nothing else could matter. And if even his loved ones were to be only a secondary concern, then how much less important were his pride and dignity?

“A-alright,” he said. He walked slowly towards the Sailmistress’ comfortable-looking bed, unbuckling his belt as he went.

He kept his back to her as he kicked free of his boots and lowered his breeches and underwear. When he glanced back over his shoulder he found her watching him intently, still fully clothed in her bright silks. His glance seemed to break the spell. She undid the elaborate knot in her sash with surprising swiftness and let her pantaloons pool around her ankles. She was naked beneath. The tight, black curls that covered her sex already glistened with her arousal, and the brown nipples—darker even than her skin—that she revealed when she pulled her blouse up over her head, were visibly stiff.

Her hair, and the golden chain that linked the rings in her nose and ear, fell back into place as she discarded the last of her clothes. The Sea Folk were obliged to work their way up through the ranks and Avaleen’s figure spoke of just such a past. The legacy of the fitness and strength she had once had were still visible, but she had softened somewhat since becoming a Sailmistress. She was fiercely beautiful. And Rand was fiercely aroused. He wondered, briefly, at what madness was in him that he should react so to the sight of her, given the circumstances. It was not the first time he’d been given cause to worry over such things.

His worry did not last long though. Turning, he revealed his state to Avaleen, who looked down and grinned. “So pretty,” she whispered.

Her hesitation was gone. She shoved him back onto her bed, and pounced upon him. Soft breasts pressed against his chest. Soft lips found his. He wasn’t sure if he should kiss her back but he did it anyway. Her hands moved greedily over his body while his own remained stubbornly at his side. The way her hip was rubbing up against his erection didn’t make it easy to remain still though.

Whatever inhibition had held her back before was long gone. Avaleen climbed on top of him and reached back to secure his cock, holding it steady so she could sink down onto it. She was sopping wet and he slid inside easily, his paler, pinker skin standing out starkly against the dark brown folds of her sex in the moments before he disappeared inside. A quiet, satisfied moan escaped her lips as she took him all the way in. She leaned down to kiss him afterwards. Light, cautious kisses they were, each coming between a slow buck of her hips as she got used to the feel of him lodged inside her.

She soon sped up, then her rocking became a bounce, a light one at first, but before too long she was fucking him in earnest, her hips rising until he was almost all the way out before slamming back down again. She raked his chest with her nails and moaned wantonly as she rode. Rand was caught between staring at her wildly shaking breasts, or at her face; her chain, too, flew in time with the rise and fall of her hips.

Avaleen was a creature of energy and drive. And of frustrated passions, it would seem. She kept up her relentless pace, rubbing herself along Rand’s cock over and over again. Long after a light sweat had misted her body, she was still going. And still unsatisfied.

When she stopped bouncing Rand thought she was done. But though Avaleen climbed off his cock, she only stayed off for a moment. Turning around, she put him back inside her now creamy cunt and leaned back to splay her hands upon the bedsheets. From this new position, she grinded herself against him, rarely rising high but rocking her hips far and wide all the same.

Her moans were loud and her need for release obvious. Rand could have let her see to herself. A stubborn and rebellious part of him urged just that. But his hands found her bouncing, stiff-nippled breasts nevertheless, and kneaded them firmly.

“Yes!” Avaleen gasped. Rand enjoyed the sound so much that a hand was stealing down over her belly before he’d even realised what he intended. He brushed through the rough curls of her pubic hair, blindly searching for and expertly finding her sensitive nub. He stirred her passions with a touch born of an experience that almost no-one would have expected, and got just the reward he’d been seeking. “YES!”

The strength of her arms gave out with her scream, and she collapsed back on top of him, shuddering and moaning her way through a long climax. Rand continued to knead her breast and rub her pussy until the last jolt of pleasure had passed through her, leaving her lax and sated.

“Light, but I needed that,” she said between gasps.

Her curls pressed against his cheek as she lay atop him, catching her breath. She was light enough that there was little discomfort, but considerate enough to soon roll off him nonetheless. He felt her heat leave his cock and she turned to face him again, but then her hesitation returned.

Rand raised an eyebrow as he watched her laying there on her side. Sweaty and naked, her full lips slightly parted, she stared at him and somehow managed to look shy despite everything that had happened. It occurred to him that she might want to cuddle, and that, somehow, that was something he had more of a choice in than the rest had been. His suspicion was confirmed when he raised his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders. Avaleen ducked her eyes as she wiggled up against his side, and laid her cheek against his chest as her breathing slowly steadied.

That, too, was something he might not have done. And yet, it was something that he did not really dislike doing.  _ Light. There really must be something wrong with me _ , he thought as he lightly petted her shoulder.

“It won’t be so bad,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of you and see you safely to your destination, the Light willing.”

“That’s the most important thing,” he told her, and himself.

They lay in languid silence for a while. Rand was wondering whether he should take his leave when her hand found his still hard cock and she began rubbing him. He hadn’t expected that, but it was a welcome surprise. An even better one followed, for Avaleen slipped down his side until her face was level with his crotch. Still rubbing his shaft, she closed her mouth upon the head of Rand’s cock and began to suck it. The feel of her mouth upon him forced a long sigh from his lips.

As he relaxed into the feeling, Rand’s hand came to rest upon the dark curls than crowned her head. The Sailmistress didn’t object. She just kept sucking. Under her ministrations, it didn’t take very long before he felt his climax begin to build inside him. He made no effort to resist it, and gave Avaleen no warning before he began spurting in her mouth. He’d half-expected her to pull away, but she kept her lips locked around his cock as he emptied his balls, and the hand than stroked his shaft seemed intent on milking every last drop out of him.

By the time Rand had finished coming, his eyes felt heavy. He sighed when her lips left his cock, and twitched a smile when he saw her sit up to swallow the last of his tribute. She wiped starkly white fluid from her full, dark lips with the back of her hand before settling in against his side once more. The thought that he should leave occurred once more, but he was so comfortable and her bare skin felt so nice and warm pressed against him. He’d wait until she told him to go. Just a little longer.

The silence lingered, and Rand drifted off to sleep in the Sailmistress’ bed.


	14. A Big Mistake

CHAPTER 11: A Big Mistake

The  _ Grey Gull _ gave a shuddering lurch, throwing Elayne to the deck and Keestis on top of her. She met the other girl’s effusive apologies with reassurance as they disentangled themselves. Red faced and wide eyed, Keestis got up and offered her hand. When Elayne finally struggled to her feet, the shoreline no longer slid by. The vessel had halted, with the bow raised and the deck canted to one side. The sails flapped noisily in the wind.

An interesting array of curses issued from the various sailors, and Mair and Ilyena saw fit to add a few of their own, but with everyone talking over each other it was hard for Elayne to get some notes for her collection. Huan Mallia pushed himself to his feet and ran for the bow, leaving the tillerman to rise on his own. “You blind worm of a farmer!” he roared toward the man in the bow, who was clinging to the rail to keep from falling the rest of the way over. “You dirt-grubbing get of a goat! Haven’t you been on the river long enough yet to recognize how the water ruffles over a mudflat?” He seized the man on the rail by the shoulders and pulled him back onto the deck, but only to shove him out of the way so he could peer down over the bow himself. “If you’ve put a hole in my hull, I will use your guts for caulking!”

The other crewmen were clambering to their feet now, and more came scrambling up from below. They all ran to cluster around the captain.

Nynaeve appeared at the head of the ladder that led down to the passenger cabins, still straightening her skirts. With a sharp tug at her braid, she frowned at the knot of men in the bow, then strode to Elayne and Keestis. “He ran us onto something, did he? After all his talk of knowing the river as well as he knows his wife. The woman probably never receives as much as a smile from him.” She jerked the thick braid again and went forward, pushing her way through the sailors to reach the captain. They were all intent on the water below.

There was no point in joining her. He would have them off faster if he was left to it, but knowing Nynaeve she was probably telling him how to do the work. Elayne shook her head ruefully as she watched the captain and crewmen all turn their attention from whatever was under the bow to Nynaeve.

She had come to know the other woman very well in the time they’d spent travelling the Arindrelle. Nynaeve was a very ... emotional lover. Sometimes she would get so shy that she refused to undress while the light was on, despite everything they had done to each other. And sometimes she could be so passionate that she got quite rough. The night before, when Nynaeve had mounted her and held her by the leg while she rubbed their pussies together, Elayne had almost feared she would end up bruised, so fierce was the woman’s desire. She felt herself becoming aroused by the memory, and took a deep breath to try and fight off the heat that threatened to colour her cheeks.

“She’d be better off leaving them to their work,” Keestis said, seemingly not noticing Elayne’s discomfort. But then, the poor girl was a tad shortsighted.

While Elayne privately agreed with her, it wouldn’t do to say it aloud. That would undermine Nynaeve’s authority. So she held her silence and watched as a ripple of agitation ran through the men, and grew stronger. For a moment the captain’s hands could be seen, waving in protest over the other men’s heads, and then Nynaeve was striding away from them—they made way, bowing now—with Mallia hurrying beside her and frowning as he wiped his face with a handkerchief. His voice became audible as they drew near.

“... a good five or six miles downriver to the next settlement! Andoran soldiers hold it, it is true, but they do not hold the miles from here to there!”

“A sunken ship,” Nynaeve told the other two women. “The work of river brigands, the captain thinks. He means to try backing off it with the sweeps, but he does not seem to think that will work.”

“We were running fast when we hit, Aes Sedai. I wanted to make good speed, to get you to your destination in time.” Mallia’s tone said he wanted to get them off his ship as soon as possible, too. He rubbed even harder at his face, and Elayne suddenly realised that he was afraid the supposed Aes Sedai would blame him. For once, she was in no hurry to reassure someone. “We are stuck hard. But I do not think we are taking water. There is no need to worry. Another ship will be along soon. Two sets of sweeps will surely get us free. There is no need for you to be put ashore if you don’t want to,” he finished half-heartedly.

Ilyena and Mair had joined them by then. The former was pretty and slender, the latter stern and muscular. “You were thinking of leaving the ship? Do you think that’s a good idea?” asked Mair, rather more confrontationally than was proper. She’d been foolish enough to fall for Mat Cauthon’s fake charms, and blamed Nynaeve for the inevitable consequences she’d suffered. As though Nynaeve simply being a Therener meant she was responsible for Mat’s actions! Elayne’s chin rose and she gave Mair a cool stare.

“Of course, it’s—!” Nynaeve stopped and frowned at her. Mair returned the frown with a level stare. Nynaeve went on in a calmer tone, if still a tight one. “The captain says it may be an hour before another ship comes along. One with enough sweeps to make a difference. Or a day. Or two, maybe. I do not think we can afford to waste a day or two waiting. We can walk to Whitebridge in two hours or less. If Captain Mallia frees his vessel as quickly as he hopes, we can reboard then. He says he will stop to see if we are there. If he does not get free, though, we can take ship from Whitebridge. We may even find a vessel waiting. The docks were quite busy, when last I was there.” She drew a deep breath, but her voice grew tighter. “Have I explained my reasoning fully enough? Do you need more?”

“It is clear to me,” Elayne put in quickly before Mair could speak. Some women just delighted in conflict. “And it sounds a good idea. You think it is a good idea, too, don’t you, Mair?”

Mair gave a grudging nod. “I suppose it is.”

Nynaeve opened her mouth, glanced at Elayne, and seemed to change what she had intended to say. “I am going below for my things,” she told the air halfway between Mair and Elayne, then turned on Mallia. “Captain, make your rowboat ready.” He was shouting for men to put the boat over the side before she had turned for the hatch.

“It will be good to see Whitebridge again,” Keestis said with a smile. “My family are there. I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

Elayne nodded in sympathy and understanding. The White Tower encouraged its initiates to sever any ties with outsiders and to avoid making any new ones. It was part of the reason the Aes Sedai were so opposed to relations with men and had punished Mair for her indiscretion.

“You should go visit them,” Ilyena encouraged. “If you lose as much weight as Mair did over it, you’ll end up looking like a broom, of course, but it would be worth it. Right?” She wore that sharp smile of hers, the one that could only have been thought friendly if you were completely blind.

“Is everything a joke to you?” Mair said angrily.

Ilyena hesitated before responding. “Very little is a joke to me. Actually. It did you good though. You look strong now, a proper Borderlander.”

Mair was made suddenly uncertain by Ilyena’s uncharacteristically serious tone. The Arafellin and the Volsuni studied each other in silence for so long that Elayne grew uncomfortable. “We should all go pack,” she said at last. “Nynaeve will want to leave as soon as possible.” She took her own advice, and strode off towards the hatch.

In short order the rowboat had ferried the first group of Accepted ashore, and they were standing on the bank with their belongings in bundles on their backs, and hung about them in pouches and scripts. Rolling grassland and scattered copses surrounded them, though the hills were forested a few miles in from the river. The sweeps on the  _ Grey Gull _ were cutting up froth, but failing to budge the vessel. Elayne watched as the rest were brought across, Dani and Ilyena keeping a careful watch over Asseil while Wynifred stared around her, more in fascination than in fear.

Mair was among the last to arrive. No sooner had she stepped off the boat then she turned and started south, not even sparing the others a glance. And before Nynaeve could take the lead.

_ Some women _ , Elayne thought. When they caught up to her, she gave Mair a reproving look that the stocky Accepted endeavoured not to notice. Nynaeve walked staring straight ahead.

Clumps of trees close along the riverbank soon hid the  _ Grey Gull _ , thick growths of wateroak and willow. They did not go through the copses, small as they were, for anything at all might be hiding in the shadows under their branches. A few low bushes grew scattered between the thickets here close to the river, but they were too sparse to hide a child much less a brigand, and they were widely spaced.

“If we do see brigands,” Emara piped, “I do be going to defend myself, Fortune prick me.”

Nynaeve’s mouth thinned. “If need be,” she told the air in front of her, “we can frighten off any brigands easily enough. Or ... deal with them. If we can find no other way.”

Elayne knew precisely what fate was ordained for any brigands who dared to ply their Shadow-spawned trade on Andoran soil, but it was much too grim a topic for her taste. “I wish you would not talk of brigands,” she said. “I would like to reach Whitebridge without meeting such creatures.”

“Oh, definitely!” Wynifred agreed as they made their way through the sparse undergrowth. “Navigating this forest is difficulty enough.”

“Forest?” Pedra asked no-one in particularly, she rolled her eyes and shook her head over how sheltered the other woman was. Elayne was tempted to say something about the nervous way Pedra had avoided contact with any of the sailors during their voyage south, but decided that it would be needlessly confrontational of her. Someone had to keep the peace.

They covered another mile, or a little more, swiftly, despite swinging in from the river to go around the thickets along the bank. Nynaeve insisted on staying well clear of the trees. The swing inland did not add much distance to what they had to cover, and none of the growths were very big, but Elayne kept a careful watch on the trees. So it was that she was the first to spot the men who stepped out from among the trees, slings whirling ’round their heads. “Look out!” she screamed, as she reached for  _ saidar _ .

Some of the Accepted reacted quicker than others. Nynaeve was hampered by her block but Elayne, having seen more than her share of combat in the past year, was able to embrace the Source much faster than she once would have. She deflected the stone that flew towards her face, and then gathered Air and Fire to form lightning. A stone cracked against Mair’s skull and she went down in a heap while Theodrin, despite being one of the strongest among them, had to throw herself to the ground to avoid meeting a similar fate. Her fellow Domani was weaker than she in the Power, but Dani was able to shield herself and the Accepted nearest her from harm, Nynaeve included. Emara was hit and fell back into Ronelle’s arm while a scowling Mayam stepped in front of them, surrounded by the light of  _ saidar _ .

She was surrounded by rough-dressed men, too. They all were. Some of the men wore bits of armour—a battered helmet, or a dented breastplate, or a jerkin sewn all over with metal scales—but most wore only coats that had not been cleaned in months, if ever. They all wore swords, at their waists or on their backs.

“I prefer fat cargoes to a bunch of women, but I suppose I can wait until dark to gather up the rest of the spoils,” said a large, fair-haired man who might have been handsome if his face were cleaner, and if his eyes hadn’t managed to be both cold and hungry at once. A sudden frown creased his brow. “Wait. Why didn’t those stones hit?”

“Because you have made a very terrible mistake, bandit,” Elayne said icily. She knew exactly what her mother would order done to men who dared to prey on Andoran citizens on Andoran soil.

Keestis had been slow to embrace  _ saidar _ , not having seen the threat coming, but now she filled herself with it, and sharpened her senses in the process. “You dare stalk the woods so close to Whitebridge!?” she said angrily. “That won’t stand!” Like Elayne, she gathered Air and Fire, but unlike Elayne, she did not hesitate to let it loose upon the grimy men who’d accosted them.

The handsome bandit, whatever his name had been, was the first to die, struck by a bolt of lightning that sent him careening back through the air. His men barely had time to shout in fear, much less run, before the rest of the Accepted followed Keestis’ example and unleashed the One Power on their would-be assailants. The earth heaved beneath them and the air lashed out at them, fire blossomed in their midst even as they froze to death. Elayne did not stand aside from the slaughter. She took no pleasure in bloodshed but these men were criminals, and she was the Daughter-Heir of Andor. It was her duty to deliver harsh justice upon such scum. The battle, if one could call it that, lasted less than a minute, and not a single bandit survived it.

As the cacophony of sounds they’d raised echoed through the woods, and disturbed dirt rained down on the dead, Nynaeve heaved a heavy sigh. She’d only just managed to reach  _ saidar _ , but there was nothing left for her to do now except tend to their wounded. “I suppose you did what you had to,” she said stiffly. She knelt beside Mair, and Elayne saw her begin to weave a Healing.

Mayam did the same for Emara, while Elayne went to stand beside Keestis. Now that her anger had faded, the golden-haired woman was staring fixedly at the carnage they had wrought. Elayne thought she understood. She hadn’t had much time to think in the immediate aftermath but the memory of the first time she’d killed, back in Falme, had haunted her in the days that followed. “It’s never easy, taking a life. Nor should it be,” she said. “But you did well here today. Those men were a threat to innocent Andorans, and to anyone else who travels the river. They had to be stopped.”

“I grew up in Whitebridge,” Keestis said quietly, repeating something that Elayne already knew well. She studied the Accepted carefully.

She briefly considered the Aes Sedai prohibition against such things, and then dismissed it. “Perhaps you should visit them while we are there. It will take some time to arrange a ship, and I shall make sure that we do not leave without you.”

Keestis’ pale blue eyes blinked rapidly. “I ... the sisters would not approve ...”

Nynaeve hauled a woozy looking Mair to her feet, and then let out a loud snort. “Are you a mouse or a woman? They would not approve! If you want to visit your parents, then visit them. Why would you ever let anyone stop you from doing such a thing?” Shaking her head, she waited only long enough to give Emara a once-over before setting off again.

Elayne was quick to follow her, and so were the others. No-one wanted to linger near so many dead bodies.

It was a solemn group that trekked across the White Bridge that afternoon. There hadn’t been much talk after the bandit attack. Each woman had spent the walk south wrapped in her own thoughts, none of which had been happy if their expressions were anything to judge by. Elayne found her mood improved by the sight of the bridge though. She’d heard all about it, or course, but had never before had the opportunity to see it in person. The White Bridge was a relic of the Age of Legends, a great arch that was made of a substance for which she had no name, seeming like coloured glass, and yet almost unbreakable. It looked far too delicate to hold the weight of all the people and horses and carts that crossed it, but it had stood for longer than almost anything else in the world. And it was Andor’s. The sight filled her with wonder and pride.

The town that occupied the western end of the bridge, and shared its name, was somewhat less spectacular, sadly. Whitebridge was a prosperous and bustling place. The wooden docks stretching out into the river were occupied by ships that flew the flags of Andor, Tar Valon, Tear and Ghealdan. The buildings that her people had raised were of well-fitted stone, rather than wood, and yet there was a certain undeniably rustic look to it all, when it was set beside the great bridge itself.

_ We are so small, compared to what came before us _ , she thought sadly.  _ Even our greatest accomplishments would surely appear insignificant to them, were any of the old Aes Sedai alive to see us now _ . She sighed softly to herself as they made their way across the bridge, her boots ringing oddly hollow upon that mysterious substance.

Elayne was somewhat surprised to find that a contingent of the Queen’s Guards had taken up residence in Whitebridge. Usually the security of the more distant towns was left to the local militias, but apparently her mother had decided to spread the Guard more thinly than she had once liked. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Though she did not recognise any of the soldiers, she kept her face hidden in the hood of her sturdy wool cloak for fear they would know her.

But none of the men seemed to associate the girl with red-gold hair with their Daughter-Heir. Some even asked her to stay, which shocked her greatly. No guardsman had ever dared to flirt with her in such a manner back in the Palace, and it wasn’t only a desire to preserve her anonymity that held her silent.

The other Accepted gathered admirers, too, every last one of them. Mair gruffly told the men who asked her that she had no time for them, while Theodrin smiled sadly, Dani laughed and Ilyena scowled. It was nice, in an odd way, to be asked; she certainly had no wish to kiss any of these fellows, but it was pleasant to be reminded that some men found her attractive. Wynifred got extremely flustered, as did Shimoku, but Pedra outdid both—her head would have been in danger of disappearing between her shoulders had she made herself look any smaller. Ronelle took Emara by the arm and escorted her through the crowd of armoured men, while plain-faced Calindin gaped and pretty Keestis tried to suppress a smile. Mayam flirted back with them openly, and so did Asseil, to Elayne’s surprise. Nynaeve slapped one man’s face. That made Elayne smile openly; she thought Nynaeve had been pinched, and despite the glare on her face, she did not look entirely displeased, either.

They were not wearing their rings, of course. Things would have been very different otherwise. It had not taken much effort on Nynaeve’s part to convince them that one place they did not want to be taken for Aes Sedai was Tear, especially if the Black Ajah was there. Now that they would be arranging their own passage, Elayne had her Great Serpent ring in her pouch with the stone  _ ter’angreal _ that granted her access to the World of Dreams; she touched it often to remind herself they were still there. Nynaeve wore hers on the cord that held Lan’s heavy ring between her breasts, now safely hidden underneath her dress.

Keestis took Elayne and Nynaeve’s advice and left the party for a time to go and visit the family she hadn’t seen in years. Wynifred went with her, claiming to want to see more of Whitebridge, but Elayne suspected she was just going to keep Keestis company. She was such a nice girl.

There was only one ship in Whitebridge whose captain was planning to sail south that day. Elayne was dismayed when she saw it. Twice as wide as the  _ Grey Gull _ , the  _ Darter _ belied its name with a bluff bow as round as its captain.

That worthy man blinked at Nynaeve and scratched his ear when she asked if his vessel was fast. “Fast? I am full of fancy Andoran wood and rugs from Tar Valon. What need to be fast with a cargo like that? Prices only go up. The  _ Grey Gull _ ? Aye, I saw Mallia hung up on something upriver this morning. He’ll not get off soon, I’m thinking. That’s what a fast ship brings you.”

Nynaeve paid their rather steep fares with such a look on her face that neither Elayne nor anyone else spoke to her until long after the  _ Darter _ had wallowed away from Whitebridge.


	15. Illian

CHAPTER 12: Illian

Mat stood near the stern watching great numbers of long-legged birds wading in the tall marsh grass that all but encircled the great harbour of Illian. He recognized the small white cranes, and could guess at their much larger blue brothers, but many of the crested birds—red-feathered or rosy, some with flat bills broader than a duck’s—he did not know at all. A dozen sorts of gulls swooped and soared above the harbour itself, and a black bird with a long, sharp beak skimmed just above the water, its underbeak cutting a furrow.  _ Spray _ was eighty feet long, with two masts, and broad in the beam, with room for deck cargo as well as in the holds, but Mat saw ships three and four times as long as her anchored across the expanse of the harbour, waiting their turns at the docks, or for the tides to shift so they could sail beyond the long breakwater. Small fishing boats worked close to the marsh, and in the creeks winding through it, two or three men in each dragging nets on long poles swung out from either side of the boat.

The wind carried a sharp scent of salt, and did little to break the heat. The sun stood well over halfway down to the horizon, but it seemed like noon. The air felt damp; it was the only way he could think of it. Damp. He caught the faint smell of fresh fish from the boats, of old fish and mud from the marsh, and the sour stink of a large tanning yard that lay on a treeless island in the marsh grass. The stories made much of the wealth and vibrancy of Illian, but they didn’t mention anything about the smell. “Stories. You can never bloody trust them,” he muttered to himself, smirking.

He peered closer at the tannery, watching men scrape hides stretched on rows of wooden frames, and other men lift hides out of huge, sunken vats with long sticks. Sometimes they stacked the hides on barrows, wheeling them into the long, low building at the edge of the yard; sometimes the hides went back into the vats, with an addition of liquids poured from large stone crocks. They probably made more leather in a day than was made in Emond’s Field in months, and he could see another tannery on another island beyond the first.

The nation of Illian shared a name with its capital city but not much else, if what he’d seen during these past few days of sailing was any hint. The city of Illian reared out of a huge marsh that stretched for miles like a plain of waving grass. Unlike any of the other great cities he’d seen, it had no walls at all, but that definitely wasn’t for lack of wealth. Illian seemed to be all towers and palaces. The buildings were all pale stone, except for some that appeared covered with white plaster, but the stone was white and grey and reddish and even faint shades of green. Rooftops of tile sparkled under the sun with a hundred different hues. The long docks held many ships, most dwarfing the  _ Spray _ , and bustled with the loading and unloading of cargo. There were shipyards at the far end of the city, where great ships stood in every stage from skeletons of thick wooden ribs to nearly ready to slide into the harbour.

Bayle was busy organising his crew in preparation for docking. That was fine by Mat. He hated goodbyes. They were always so awkward. It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed his time on the  _ Spray _ , and in Bayle’s cabin, but there was always the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to bear with seeing Mat go. That happened sometimes, and it never failed to take the fun out of things. A smile, a wink and off he’d go, taking some nice memories with him. That was the way things should be. Hopefully Bayle would see it that way, too.

Lines were hurled ashore from the ship. Bare-chested dockworkers caught them and made them fast to stone posts along the docks, while the  _ Spray _ eased its way into port. Bags filled with something soft were hung from the rails, ready to cushion the hull if it bumped up against stone. Mat snorted. Bayle was much gentler with his ship than he’d been with Mat during their tumbles. Sailors. Bunch of loons, the lot of them.

“You!” the chief of the loons suddenly roared. Mat, used to hearing such roars back home, instinctually painted an expression of innocence on his face, but it wasn’t him that Bayle was shouting at. He thrust a thick finger out, stopping Floran Gelb in his tracks at the length of the boat. “You’ve slept on watch for the last time on my vessel! Or on any vessel, if I have my way of it. Choose your own side—the dock or the river—but off my ship now!”

Gelb hunched his shoulders, and his eyes glittered hate at Mat, a poisonous glare. The wiry man looked around the deck for support, but there was little hope in that look. One by one, every man in the crew straightened from what he was doing and stared back coldly. Gelb wilted visibly, but then his glare returned, twice as strong as it had been. With a muttered curse he darted below to the crew’s quarters. Bayle sent two men after him to see he did no mischief and dismissed him with a grunt.

When Gelb came back on deck, followed by his twin shadows, he refused to look at anyone. Back rigid and face dark, Gelb walked stiff-legged down the gangplank and pushed roughly into the thick crowd on the dock. In a minute he was gone from sight.

_ Good riddance. He has the right idea though _ . Mat snatched up his bags and arranged them about his person before taking his staff from where he’d left it leaning against the foremast. By the time he was ready to leave, too, Bayle was waiting by the gangplank.

Mat put on his third best smile, the one that said he wasn’t in the best of moods but he’d still hear you out. “Well you weren’t lying, Captain. That was a quicker sailing than I’d expected. Either you lot really know what you’re doing, or the other captains I’ve met are deliberately dragging things out to squeeze their passengers for more money.”

The nearby crewmen looked pretty self-satisfied all of a sudden, and many of them nodded knowingly to themselves. Mat stamped down the impulse to say something clever.

Bayle just grunted and hooked his thumbs behind his wide leather belt. “Illian I promised and Illian I do deliver, Fortune prick me. The greatest city in the world.”

“And the sweetest smelling,” Mat couldn’t help but add.

Bayle made out as if he hadn’t heard. He lowered his voice before continuing. “You still no have told me why you do be in such a hurry to get here, Mat. Illian do be great for many things, but it no be the safest at times. There be places even the Queen herself would no go wandering in. Are you sure you know what you be doing?”

Mat gave an easy shrug. “I can take care of myself.” Rough neighbourhoods were a constant in any city. All the stories said so. Sure, he hadn’t seen any in Fal Dara or Caemlyn that he could recall. And not in Tar Valon or Far Madding, of course. But he was still a well-travelled man now, and he was sure he could handle any trouble Illian threw his way.

Bayle, eyeing him in an annoyingly knowing way, didn’t seem so convinced. “Yarin!”

His skinny first mate, who looked like he might be related to those birds they’d passed—who knew what Illianers got up to behind closed doors?—hastened over to join them. “Yes, Captain?”

“Give the crew their leave, but keep a dozen strong men from the day’s shift onboard to guard. I do be going for a walk. Send word to Mistress Stranghilos and Mistress Taular; they can pick up their goods tomorrow, if they have the second half of my payment.”

“As you say, Captain.”

One last grunt and then Bayle was swaying off down the gangplank. “This way, Mat. I’ll show you to a good inn. No few footpads stalk these revelries, where the pickings be rich and most be deep in wine. By my aged grandmother’s teats, you’d probably end up dicing with the Velenza if I did no keep an eye on you.”

“There’s no need. I’ve been all over Valgarda, I can find my way through Illian,” Mat groused as he followed. It looked like Bayle was going to be another one of those flings that had a hard time saying goodbye.

Illian was as busy as it was noisy. Dockworkers shouted at each other, merchants hawked their wares, and impatient folk cried out to be let through the press. Mat was tempted to join those last. Even with the blocky captain leading the way, he found himself being jostled at every second step. That was one thing he’d never have had to put up with back in Emond’s Field. Not that he missed it, of course. Music and song and laughter drifted from inns and taverns that they passed. Voices. A hum of voices like putting his head into a giant beehive. A great city, living. He didn’t know Illian, or plan to stay long, but  _ that _ sound ... that sounded like home to him now. Under everything lay the smell of marsh and salt water though. He could have done without that.

People ran past Mat in masks and costumes bizarre and fanciful, many showing a surprising amount of flesh. Shouting and singing they ran, a half dozen together, then scattered pairs giggling and clutching each other, then twenty in a raucous knot. Mat grinned at the sight. “Is there a festival on?”

Bayle shrugged his heavy shoulders. “The Feast of Sefan. It should have been over by now, but you know how it do be with festivals.”

“Party ‘til you drop, huh? My kind of place. What’s the occasion?”

“It do be a competition for gleemen and bards and the like. Over by now, of course. Tonight the storytellers will entertain in the palaces and mansions of the city, where the great and mighty lounge. There will be music and dancing, and fans and ices to dispel the year’s first real heat. The carnival will fill the streets, too, in the moon-bright muggy night. You’ll be right at home in it all, I be thinking.”

“I’ll definitely try to be!” But the more he thought about it, the more his grin slipped. Could he afford to linger in Illian while that assassin was off hunting Nynaeve and Elayne? “Or maybe not,” he sighed. “I should probably buy a horse and ride on at first light.” A ship might have been faster but Bayle wouldn’t sail to Tear, and he could only assume the rest of the Illianers would be similarly reluctant to brave the waters of their old rival.

“If you say so ...” Mat ignored the unspoken question and turned his attention back to the city around them.

He was surprised the first time they came to a bridge inside the city—a low arch of stone over a waterway no more than thirty paces across—but by the third such bridge, he realized that Illian was crisscrossed by as many canals as streets, with men poling laden barges as often as plying whips to move heavy wagons. Sedan chairs wove through the crowds in the streets, and occasionally the lacquered coach of some wealthy merchant or a noble, with crest or House sign painted large on the doors. Many of the men wore those beards that left their upper lip bare, while the women seemed to favour hats with wide brims and attached scarves that they secured under their chins.

Once they crossed a great square, many miles in extent, surrounded by huge columns of white marble at least eighty feet tall and ten feet thick, supporting nothing but a wreath of carved olive branches at the top of each. A huge, white palace stood at either end of the square, each all columned walks and airy balconies, slender towers and purple roofs. Each reflected the other exactly, at first glance, but then Mat realized that one was just a fraction smaller in each dimension, its towers just a few feet shorter.

“This be the Square of Tammaz, where the Hunters of the Horn take their Oath, and those be the Queen’s Palace and the Great Hall of the Council,” Bayle said. “Ogier built. The first Queen of Illian did say the Council of Nine could have any palace they wished, just as long as they did no try to build one larger than hers. So the Council did ask the Ogier stonemasons to copy the Queen’s palace exactly, but two feet smaller in every measurement. That has been the way of Illian ever since. The Queen and the Council of Nine duel with each other, and the Assemblage struggles with both, and so while they carry on their battles, the rest of us live as we wish, with none to look over our shoulders too much. It no be a bad way to live.”

He hoped Bayle wasn’t leading up to asking him to stay. Like the rest of the Illianers in the square, he didn’t seem to notice the heat or the damp. But Mat certainly did. That was why he loosened the collar on his coat. The only reason he did so.

There didn’t seem to be any recognisable look to the people of Illian, not that Mat could see. He’d learned to spot a Cairhienin or a Saldaean or a Domani on sight, but the folk here didn’t seem to have any kind of distinctive features other than their odd fashion sense. They were a chaotic mix of skin colours and eye colours and hair colours. Short, tall, fat, thin, handsome and hideous; people of every type imaginable seemed to live in Illian. None of those they passed gave Mat a second glance.

_ I could probably hide from the Dark One himself in a place like this _ , he thought. Once he’d gotten Elayne and Nynaeve out of their latest pickle, he might just come back to Illian. Any place that was free of all that calamity a year back was a place Mat could see himself calling home.

“What do be wrong with them all?” Bayle suddenly muttered.

Mat felt an itch between his shoulders. The Illianer sounded grim.  _ What don’t I see? _ The sun shone down on the sparkling roof tiles, made reflections from pale stone walls. Those buildings looked as if they might be cool, inside. The buildings were clean and bright, and so were the people. The people.

At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Men and women moving about their business, purposeful, but slower than he was used to further north. He thought it might be the heat, and the bright sun. Then he spotted a baker’s lad trotting down the street with a big tray of fresh loaves balanced on his head; the young fellow wore a grimace on his face that was nearly a snarl. A woman in front of a weaver’s shop looked as if she might bite the man holding up the bright-coloured bolts for her inspection. A juggler on a corner ground his teeth and stared at the folk who tossed coins into the cap lying in front of him as if he hated them. Not everyone looked so, but it seemed to him that at least one face in five wore anger and hatred. And he did not think they were even aware of it. Perhaps the Illianers were a moody lot. This heat could probably do that to you. But Bayle didn’t seem to think it normal, and he should know.  _ Oh burn me, this better not be Shadar Logoth again _ .

The buildings around them began to change as they walked, crossing more bridges as they crossed Illian to its other side. The pale stone was as often undressed as polished, now. The towers and palaces vanished, to be replaced by inns and warehouses. Many of the men in the streets, and some of the women, had an oddly rolling gait; they all had the bare feet he associated with sailors. The smells of pitch and hemp were strong in the air, with sour mud overlying both, all of it made fiercer by heated air that seemed nearly damp enough to drink. The canals’ odours changed, too, making his nose wrinkle.  _ Chamber pots _ , he thought.  _ Chamber pots and old privies _ . It made him feel queasy.

“The Bridge of Flowers,” Bayle announced as they crossed yet another low bridge, no different from the others. He inhaled deeply. “It will take us to the Perfumed Quarter. Home.”

“I’m happy for you,” Mat said politely. Breathing through his mouth didn’t help at all.

He led Mat through the streets to an inn, two stories of rough, green-veined stone topped with pale green tiles. Evening was coming on, the light growing softer as the sun settled. It gave a little relief from the heat, but not much. Boys seated on mounting blocks in front of the inn gave them a brief, hopeful look, only to look away again on seeing their lack of horses.

Bayle jerked his thumb towards the inn. “This be a good place for you, I do be thinking. I know the owner, Nieda. Good woman, no the type to be easily offended.”

Mat frowned up at the inn sign for a moment before bursting into laughter. A white-striped badger danced on its hind legs with a man carrying what seemed to be a silver shovel. Easing the Badger, it read. He’d heard that one before.

“That desperate, Domon? Look, I’m flattered but I already told you that I’m not the type to get tied down,” he teased.

Bayle snorted. “Get over yourself, Mat Cauthon. I be trying to keep you from getting a knife between your ribs. No more than that. Fortune prick me! I be a fool for doing even that much for a scoundrel like you.” He pushed open the door and stumped inside, still grumbling under his breath.

“Bah! Takes one to know one,” Mat said as he followed the captain inside.


	16. Easing the Badger

CHAPTER 13: Easing the Badger

The common room, with sawdust on the floor and a pretty, dark-skinned musician with long black curls softly strumming a twelve-stringed bittern in one of the Sea Folk’s sad songs, was well lit and quiet.

“Nieda allows no commotion in her place, and her nephew, Bili, be big enough to carry a man out with either hand. Sailors, dockworkers, and warehousemen come to the Badger for a drink and maybe a little talk, for a game of stones or darts. It be a reputable place,” Bayle explained.

“I guess reputable is good,” Mat said reluctantly. “If I’m just passing through, that is.”

The room was only half full; even men who liked quiet had been lured out by the carnival. The talk was soft, but Mat caught mentions of the Great Hunt, and of the false Dragons. The Tairens had apparently killed one a while back, and there seemed to be some question as to whether it would have been preferable to see the false Dragon die, or the Tairens.

Bayle grimaced. “False Dragons! Fortune prick me, there be no place safe these days. That one at Falme did do things I no would have thought possible. Hard to say who we were fleeing from, looking back, him or the Seanchan.”

“The Seanchan? What’s that?”

“Never mind,” Bayle muttered.

The stout proprietress, with her hair rolled at the back of her head, was wiping a mug, keeping a sharp eye on her establishment. She did not stop what she was doing, or even look at them, really, but her left eyelid drooped, and her eyes slanted toward three men at a table in the corner. Bayle followed her gaze, and Mat followed his.

Raucous laughter broke out from one of the men, and a scornful voice spoke up loudly. “Trollocs? Put on a gleeman’s cloak, man! You’re drunk! Trollocs! Borderland fables!”

Mat’s eyes widened.  _ Blood and ashes! Not here, too! _

“Gelb,” Bayle growled. Only then did Mat recognise the man with his narrow back to them. Gelb sat at the table in the back with the two strangers. They were laughing at him, but they were listening all the same.

“No, no, there used to be Trollocs,” one of the men said, “but they killed them all in the Trolloc Wars.”

“Borderland fables!” the first man repeated.

“It’s true, I tell you,” Gelb protested loudly. “I’ve been in the Borderlands. I’ve seen Trollocs, and they’re real. As real as Darkfriends. Those men, if you can call them that, knew him by name. That’s why I wouldn’t stay on the  _ Spray _ . I’ve had my suspicions about Bayle Domon for some time, but those friends of his were Darkfriends for sure. I tell you ...” Laughter and coarse jokes drowned out the rest of what Gelb had to say.

Bayle Domon was a broad, muscular man, and none of those out for a bit of easy gold had thought him rich enough, in his plain-cut coat, to risk his size. The few people who Mat had noticed weighing their chances on the walk here had edged back till he was well past. Dark hair that hung to his shoulders and a long beard that left his upper lip bare framed a round face, but that face had never been soft, and now it was set as grimly as if he meant to batter his way through a wall. A very thin wall, with a liar’s tongue, that went by the name of Floran Gelb.

“Do that be my name I hear on your tongue, Floran Gelb!?”

Gelb gave a comical little jump and then spun around in his chair. “C-captain!”

“Darkfriend, is it? Bad enough you can no work a full shift without I find you snoring in a corner, now you slander me in my own home!? You spineless little bilge rat!”

Pale-faced and wide-eyed, Gelb scampered out of his chair in an effort to put as much distance between himself and Bayle as he could. With his narrow shoulders hunched like that, he looked as pathetic a man as Mat had ever seen. If there was one thing he hated, it was tattletales. Especially when the tales they told weren’t true but people believed them anyway. He wasn’t the only one to find the sight amusing either; the men that Gelb had been telling his lies to were laughing even louder now.

Leaning hipshot against the counter, Mat put down a coin without bothering to look at what kind it was. “Your best ale, please,” he said, with his attention still fixed on the pair of sailors dancing around the room. Bayle had the size, but Gelb was quicker and managed to evade the captain’s efforts to get his hands on his collar. He suddenly threw himself to the floor and crawled quickly under a table, coming out the other side before Bayle could round it. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for the door while curses and thumping boots chased after him.

“ ‘There’s no loser quite like a sore loser’,” Mat quoted.

“Don’t that be the truth,” the innkeeper said. For all Bayle’s talk about how she liked the quiet, she hadn’t tried to stop the confrontation, and when he looked at her now, he found her smiling.

“Nice to see that some folk still have their wits about them,” Mat said with an answering smile. “Bayle seemed to think everyone in town had come down with a sour stomach while he was away.”

Nieda mused for a moment. “Perhaps they have. It do be hard to say. The young lordlings do always come down to the docks for the wenching and carousing they can no get away with where the air does smell fresher. Perhaps they do come more often, now, since the hard of the winter. Perhaps. And others do snap at each other more, too. It did be a hard winter. That does make men angrier, and women as well. All that rain, and cold. Why, I did wake two mornings to find ice in my washbasin. No so hard as the last winter, of course, but that did be a winter for a thousand years. Almost enough to make me believe those travellers’ tales of frozen water falling from the sky.” She giggled to show how little she believed that. It was an odd sound from such a large woman.

Mat shook his head.  _ She doesn’t believe in snow? _ But if she thought this weather was cool, he could believe it of her.

Bayle had chased Gelb all the way out into the street but it didn’t look like he’d been able to catch him. He stalked back into the common room looking like a bear with a sore tooth. He shared his scowl with the rest of the patrons as though daring anyone to hint that they believed Gelb’s tales. The two fellows Gelb had been talking to stopped smirking and took a sudden interest in their cups.

Nieda poured the irate captain a cup of ale without bothering to ask what he wanted. He quaffed it all in one go and asked for more, then asked for news as well, adding, “The City do feel tense to me. Has anything unusual happened?”

“I do suppose you could call Lord Brend’s ascension to the Council of Nine unusual,” Nieda said. “Fortune prick me, I can no remember ever hearing his name before the winter, but he did come to the City—from somewhere near Goran Wood, it be rumoured—and did be raised inside a week. It do be said he be a good man, and strongest of the Nine—they all do follow his lead, it be said, though he be newest and unknown—but sometimes I do have strange dreams of him.”

Mat waggled his eyebrows. “Handsome, is he?”

He evaded her swat with the ease of long practice. “Not those sort of dreams! Where’d you find this one, Bayle? Typical male foolishness. You do truly wish to hear it? Dreams of Lord Brend in strange places, and walking bridges hanging in air. All fogged, these dreams do be, but near every night they do come. Did you ever hear of such? Foolishness, Fortune prick me! Yet, it do be odd. Bili does say he does dream the same dreams. I do think he does hear my dreams and copy them. Bili do be none too bright, sometimes, I do think.”

Ever since ridding himself of the cursed dagger he’d picked up in Shadar Logoth, Mat’s memories had been a bit on the fuzzy side. But there was something familiar about what Nieda was describing, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“How I do maunder on,” the innkeeper continued, patting the rolled hair at the back of her neck. “As if my foolish dreams do be important.” She giggled again. A quick giggle; this was not as foolish as believing in snow. “Do you be wanting rooms for the night? Supper is fresh-caught redstripe, if you be wanting some of that as well.”

“A room and a meal would be good,” Mat said, “but a ship would be even better. Do you know if any are sailing for Tear?” There was always the chance Bayle was just more wary of the Tairens than normal.

“For Tear?” Nieda laughed. “Why, none for Tear. The Nine did forbid any ship to sail for Tear a month gone now, nor any from Tear to call here, though I do think the Sea Folk pay it no mind. But there do be no Sea Folk ship in the harbour. It do be odd, that. The order of the Nine, I do mean, and the Queen silent on it, when she does always raise her voice if they but take a step without her lead. Leticia Sedai has no been seen for months either. They say she did quarrel with the Queen and get sent back to Tar Valon. Or perhaps it be no that, exactly, who can say with Aes Sedai? All the other talk do be of war with Tear, but the boatmen and wagoneers who do carry supplies to the army do say the soldiers do all look north.”

Mat didn’t want to hear about fools and their wars, and he definitely didn’t want to hear about Aes Sedai. “I guess it’ll have to be a horse then.”

“There’s a horsetrader just down the road who’ll give you a fair price. Tell her Nieda sent you.”

Price wasn’t an issue for Mat, not since this uncanny lucky streak of his had started. He almost never lost at any game of chance now. Speed was what he wanted, and he’d pay whatever he needed to for it. “I’ll take a look.”

“You should do the same, Bayle,” said Nieda with a tip of her head towards something over their shoulders. She took up another mug and went back to her washing.

When Mat looked back, he saw a trio of men approaching the counter. He’d noticed them before, if only because they dressed differently from the rest of the patrons. The men were quiet even for the Badger, almost sombre, and their bell-shaped velvet caps and dark coats, embroidered across the chest in bars of silver and scarlet and gold, stood out among the plain dress of the others.

Bayle took one look at them and sighed the word “Cairhienin”. By the time he’d finished his next swallow of the brown ale, the three men in striped coats were standing beside them.

“Did I chance to hear your name reported correctly? Captain Domon?” They were all three nondescript, but there was an air about the speaker that made Mat take him for their leader. They did not appear to be armed; despite their fine clothes, they looked as if they did not need to be. There were hard eyes in those so very ordinary faces. “Captain Bayle Domon, of the  _ Spray _ ?”

Bayle gave a short nod, and the three joined them at the counter without waiting for an invitation. The same man did the talking; the other two just watched, hardly blinking. Guards, Mat thought, for all their fine clothes.  _ And who is this fellow to have a pair of guards watching over him? _

“Captain Domon, we represent a personage who wishes to meet with you, someone who shares your interest in antiques and wishes to discuss certain items you were attempting to sell on your last visit.”

“ _ Spray _ ’s hold still be full,” Bayle cut him off. “I’ll unload her tomorrow, and sell what I brought then. Your personage can find me at the riverside docks.”

The man seemed unperturbed at the interruption. “We had heard you were giving up the river trade.”

“Maybe I do, and maybe no. I have no decided,” Bayle said. He sounded a bit uncomfortable all of a sudden and Mat, who had begun to zone out as soon as they mentioned antiques, turned his attention back to their talk.

“Surely, Captain, you would be willing to attend on my master knowing that he is willing to give a thousand gold marks for one of your pieces.”

Despite himself, Mat goggled. He was glad to see Bayle doing the same. “What do you want me to sell for that? There be no crowns in my chest, only some old statues. Who do you work for?”

“You need no names, Captain.” The man set a large leather pouch on the counter, and a sealed parchment. The pouch clinked heavily as he pushed them towards Bayle. The big green wax circle holding the folded parchment shut bore the Nine Bees of Illian. “Two hundred on account. For a thousand marks, I think you need no names. Give that, seal unbroken, to the captain on duty at the front gate of the Queen’s Palace, and he will give you three hundred more, and escort you to my master. Be sure to bring your collection with you. The rest of your money will be given once it is confirmed that you still have the desired item.”

Bayle drew a deep breath. Even Mat, for whom money was not an issue, was a little stunned. A thousand marks was more money than the  _ Spray _ would clear in three years, from what Bayle had told him during their trip downriver. When Bayle reached to take the pouch, the man who had done all the talking caught his wrist. Bayle glared at him, but he looked back undisturbed.

“You must go as soon as possible, Captain. The person I represent is not noted for their patience.”

“At sundown,” Domon growled, and the man nodded and released his hold.

“At sundown, then, Captain Domon. Remember, discretion keeps a man alive to spend his money.”

Bayle watched the three of them leave, then stared sourly at the pouch and the parchment on the table in front of him.

“Trouble, Bayle?” Nieda asked before Mat could do the same. “You do look as if you had seen a Trolloc.” She giggled at that. Mat suspected that Trollocs were as real to her as snow.

“No trouble, Nieda,” Bayle said. He untied the pouch, dug a coin out without looking, and tossed it to her. “Drinks for everyone till that do run out, then I’ll give you another.”

Nieda looked at the coin in surprise. “A Tar Valon mark! Do you be trading with the witches now, Bayle?”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “That I do not!”

She bit the coin, then quickly snugged it away behind her broad belt. “Well, it be gold for that. And I suspect the witches be no so bad as some make them out, anyway. I’d no say so much to many men. I know a moneychanger who do handle such. You’ll no have to give me another, with as few as be here tonight. More ale for you, Bayle?”

He nodded numbly, though his mug was still almost full, and she trundled off.

“You don’t look very happy, for a man who was just handed a fortune,” said Mat.

Bayle grunted. “Let’s just say my habit of collecting old things has gotten me in trouble lately. I don’t like the thought of going through that again.”

“How dangerous could some old antique collector be?” Mat scoffed. A wicked smile crossed his face. “Tell you what. I’ll come along with you. You know, just to make sure you don’t get yourself in trouble without someone to chaperone you.”

Bayle’s outraged curses just made him laugh louder.


	17. Prices

CHAPTER 14: Prices

The waxing moon lit the humid, night-dark streets of Illian, which still rang with celebration left over from daylight. Fireworks crackled in the sky, gold and silver bursts against the black. There seemed to be almost as many Illuminators in the city as there were gleemen. It made Mat think of Aludra.

It had taken them longer than expected to get back to the  _ Spray _ . A surprising number of Illianers were feeling belligerent tonight, festival or no festival. Bayle had had to get himself a cudgel after the third time some brightly dressed men came close to starting a fight over nothing.

Yarin Maeldan, the brooding, stork-like second on  _ Spray _ , was waiting for them when they arrived, with his brows pulled down to his long nose. The reason for his mood soon came out. “Carn’s dead, Captain.”

Bayle stared at him, frowning. “Blood and ashes! Have you told the magistrates? Not that they be like to do much, sailors being such a ‘rough and quarrelsome’ lot.” There was a tale in his scorn, or Mat was a milkcow. But Maeldan had a tale of his own.

“ ’Tisn’t all, Captain,” he said. “They worked Carn with knives, like they wanted him to tell them something. And some men tried to sneak aboard  _ Spray _ not an hour gone. The dock watch ran them off. Wharf rats maybe, but ... my misses came down to visit the ship. She says somebody tossed my room at home last night. Took some silver, so I’d think it was thieves, but they left that belt buckle of mine, the one set with garnets and moonstones, lying right out in plain sight. What’s going on, Captain? The men are afraid, and I’m a little nervous myself.”

“I no can say. The city broods tonight but no-one be fit to tell me why. There’s talk of war with Tear though. Mayhap that be it. Send someone to roust the lads out of their drinking holes. We might be needing a stouter watch than I expected. I’ll see when I get back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Some noble wants to buy one of my pieces. Would no say which one, of course.” Bayle snorted. “Nobles.”

Leaving Maeldan to see to his captain’s orders, they went below to the cabin they’d recently shared. Neither man was much in the mood to reminisce though, not with blood in the air, so to speak. Bayle collected old things, as much as he could living on shipboard. He’d told Mat that what he could not buy, because it was too expensive or too large, he collected by seeing and remembering. All those remnants of times gone, those wonders scattered around the world had been what had first pulled him aboard a ship as boy. For all that, his collection didn’t take up much room, just the carved and polished chest that he kept by his bed. The things he collected were mostly small and light. Mat had been prepared to help carry the chest—he was no stranger to work, whatever the folk back home had thought—but Bayle hefted the whole thing by himself and balanced it on one broad shoulder.

“Lead the way then, ‘chaperone’.”

Despite being a stranger to Illian, Mat was able to find the Square of Tammaz again easily enough. He wasn’t shy about using his staff to clear their way either, not with Bayle’s cudgel tucked away behind his belt and that chest of who knew what out in plain sight of any footpads. He made himself look as foul-tempered and dangerous as he could and he must have done a good job of it, too, for they made it to the palace gate without incident.

The guards there looked much fancier than the City Watch. These ones wore burnished steel breastplates worked with the Nine Bees over their green coats, and they hadn’t been shy with the yellow embroidery either. They crossed their spears as soon as Mat approached. “You’re lost, man. Go home and soak your head, this is the Queen’s Palace,” one said, in an accent that certainly wasn’t Illianer. The Companions. Mat had heard that they let foreigners join, which most armies in Valgarda did not. He put on his best smile.

“Then I’m just where I need to be. We got this letter see, saying that we’re to meet someone here about an antique sale.” He proffered the letter immediately, well recalling what had happened the last time he tried to talk his way into a meeting at a royal palace instead of just showing the invitation.

The guards exchanged glances, but the foreigner accepted the latter from Mat’s hands, frowned down at the seal and then said, “Wait here.”

“Happy to,” Mat said. It wasn’t as if he was the one carrying a big wooden chest about. Not that Bayle looked particularly worn out yet, to be fair.

The guard soon returned with another, even fancier looking soldier. An officer, obviously, he frowned at them from behind the face-bars of his plumed helmet. The already-opened letter was held in one gauntleted hand, and a fat purse was held in the other. “You be the man I was told to expect then. Come with me, I’ll show you to him.” He jingled the purse once before turning on his heel and marching off. He didn’t even bother to look back to make sure Mat and Bayle were following, but follow they did. A thousand gold marks could have that effect on you.

The Queen’s Palace was kept well lit, even at night. Their boots rang on polished marble as they made their way through the tall corridors, and up the broad staircases, most of which were open to the night air on at least one side. Rich tapestries and richer statuary were displayed in abundance. To Mat’s very pleasant surprise, many of those statues and tapestries showed people in various stages of undress. One of the statues, all in white marble, had the top of her dress pushed down to bunch around her elbows, leaving her chest completely bare. His steps dragged when they passed that one, and the officer cleared his throat loudly to try and get him to hurry up. Reluctantly, Mat let himself be hurried.

The room they were led to proved disappointingly plain, after all the riches they’d passed on the way there; just a normal-looking office on the third floor. The Companion held the door open for Bayle to enter and then shut it behind Mat, leaving himself on the outside. A lone man awaited them inside. One look at him and Mat immediately forgot about the office. Plain or rich, only a fool would look at the furniture while this man was in the room.

He wasn’t sure what exactly it was that put him immediately on edge like that. Maybe it was the livid red scar that slanted across the man’s face from hairline to golden beard, a beard the lip of which had not been shaved in the fashion of Illian. Or maybe it was the cold blue eyes that fastened on Bayle with unconcealed disdain. Mat had met snobs and killers and tyrants before, but most of them had at least tried to hide what they were. Not this one. His muscular frame almost quivered with pent-up energy, as though he’d gone too long without hitting something and was just waiting for a likely target to present itself. Not wanting to be that target, Mat quietly moved to put Bayle between himself and the scarred man.

“I am Lord Brend. You are Domon? You’ve kept me waiting too long. That is not wise,” the man said in an accent that was definitely not Illianer. Bayle stiffened in what Mat was sure was shock. This man was an Illianer noble? He didn’t look or sound the part at all. “Show me the items; I want to make sure they are as my agents reported.”

“Your man did no say which item you be interested in, so I brought the whole chest.”

“Set it down on the desk,” Brend said. He had an abrupt way of talking, like he was angry about something. Mat had only just met him, but he suspected that he was rarely not angry.

Bayle did as instructed, but Mat could tell he didn’t much like being spoken to like that. He undid the hasp while his buyer waited with naked impatience. No sooner had Bayle opened the lid than the man stepped forward to peer inside. The smile that crossed his face did nothing to make him seem less intimidating. If anything, it had the opposite effect. Reaching inside, he pulled out an ivory carving, roughly the length of his hand, of a man holding a sword. The piece looked nice enough to Mat. Lifelike even. But it wasn’t so much better than those they’d passed on the way here that he could see what was worth grinning so lasciviously over it, the way Brend now was. “Now who is stronger?” he said, but to himself, not to them. He pocketed the statue and then lifted a second item from the chest, a black and white disk that looked almost familiar. “Now who is favoured, Elan Morin?” Laughter rumbled from his chest as he looked down on the disk in his hands. For a second Mat thought he would crush the thing, but then he shrugged. “It requires more thought.”

Bayle cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Those be what you wanted to buy then? I suppose a thousand be a fair enough price.”

Brend had been enjoying his crowing, and didn’t like being interrupted. That was plain from the sharp look he gave Bayle. But he opened a drawer on the desk and fished out another coin pouch just the same. He tossed it to the captain, who caught it easily despite the weighty look it had.

“Take it and go. And if you ever find any other ... antiques like this, bring them to me. You will be rewarded again.”

The scar-faced man turned his attention back to his prizes, and turned his shoulder to his guest as well. Mat was happy to let him do so. For once, the thought of mouthing off and trying to prick someone’s inflated ego didn’t even occur to him, not with this one. But just as he was entertaining glad thoughts of heading back to the  _ Spray _ and counting the coins, just as Brend was turning his head away from them, his icy gaze flickered across Mat’s face. Flickered across, and then snapped back with a sudden recognition.

“You!”

“Me?”

Another grin split Brend’s face and somehow made his scar seem even more livid. “You must be my lucky charm, Domon, to deliver me so many prizes all in one night!”

“There be another piece you want to buy?” Bayle said slowly. Alarm was growing on his face and Mat was sure the same expression was showing on his own.

“Buy? No. Take your coins and leave. I do not mistreat those who serve well.” Brend pointed his finger right at Mat’s chest. “But this one stays. I have business with him.”

Mat scowled. “With me? I don’t know you at all.”

Brend chuckled. “Don’t you?”

Shaking his head, Mat eyed the door. There were no guards here, not in the room at least, and even if the officer was still outside he thought he might be able to get past him. Brend was a muscular man, and obviously an experienced bully, but he carried no weapon and was shorter than either of them. He didn’t want to make an enemy of the Lord, but there was no way he was staying here alone with him.

“Do he be under arrest or something? What crime do he be accused of?”

There was little of fondness in the look Brend gave his lucky charm then. “I gave you a chance to leave, Domon. Take it. Now.”

There was only a brief pause before Bayle spoke again. “Right. Just let me get my things.” He dropped the coin purse into his chest, closed it again, redid the hasp, and gave a sad little sigh. “Fortune prick me. How do I keep getting into these messes?” He picked up the chest, turned away from Brend ... and then spun back towards him, slamming the heavy wood against him. “Let’s go, Mat! We be getting out of here!”

Always quick on his feet, Mat was already pulling at the door handle when the first curse escaped Brend’s lips. He was still pulling on it when the third one did though. He spun the latch this way and that, pulled and pushed as hard as he could, but the door wouldn’t budge.

“What in the Light?”

“You  _ kjasic _ ungrateful insect.  _ Bajad drovja _ ! I would have let you live, and you dare try to strike me! ME!”  _ Try? _ When Mat looked back he found a red-faced Brend glaring murderously at Bayle. The chest was on the ground, but Brend didn’t seem to have been hurt at all. He was still standing exactly where he’d been when Bayle swung on him. And Bayle? Bayle was floating a foot above the ground with the whites of his eyes showing all around.

“What in the Light?” Mat repeated, but part of him already knew it was anything but.

Brend sneered. “The Light. I gave up on the Light a long time ago, boy.” At the smallest wave of his hand, Bayle flew across the room to slam into the marble wall. He bounced off it and fell bonelessly to the floor.

“Bastard! Who are you, what did you do to him!?”

The scar-faced man smiled a slow, cruel smile. “Who am I? My name is Sammael. Do you know me now?” He watched Mat’s eyes as he said it, and whatever he saw there made his smile grow broader.

Mat’s heart had already been pounding in his chest, now it beat like a bee’s wings. Sammael! A Forsaken! And no Moiraine around to save them this time. Or Rand, he supposed. Blood and ashes, to think it would take something like this to make him miss that poor, mad bastard. His eyes darted from the locked door to the open window, then back to the grinning monster in the room with them.

“What do you want?” he asked shakily. “I already told Ba’alzamon I wouldn’t serve him.”

Sammael snorted, a shockingly normal sound to issue from someone who bore such an infamous name. “Ishamael and his elaborate plans. What have they ever amounted to? How often have they blown up in his face? I prefer a more direct approach. Lews Therin will have to do without his hangers-on this time. Let’s see how well he does then.” A sudden, intense hatred lit Sammael’s face when he mentioned Lews Therin Telamon. Why he’d think Mat had anything to do with the Dragon was a mystery but he doubted any amount of denials would win the Forsaken over. “Perhaps I’ll send your head to him, if he ever crawls out of whatever hole he’s been hiding in. Time to die, boy.”

Mat had been edging closer to the window as Sammael ranted. Now he broke into a sprint. He didn’t know if Bayle was dead or alive and—the Light burn him—he couldn’t afford to check. He only had one chance to escape, and even that was a slim one.  _ Luck don’t fail me now! _

“ _ Carai an Caldazar _ !” he found himself shouting, not knowing why. Sammael just laughed and raised his hand to point at Mat’s chest again. He saw fire bloom from out of nothing. The window was so close. And yet it was too far. “ _ Mia dovienya! _ ” he cried. He might have laughed then, if he had the breath for it. His last words, and he had no idea what they meant. Bloody typical!

Something pulled Mat backwards by the collar of his coat. Something stepped between him and the gust of fire that shot towards him. Something—no, someone!—roared a familiar roar.

Bayle shielded his face with his left arm as best he could but the flames caught and held in his coat. Despite the pain, his dark eyes fixed on Mat’s. “Go! Warn someone!” he shouted, before shoving him towards the window. Mat’s knees struck the sill, and suddenly he was falling backwards into the night. He saw Bayle doubled over in pain. He saw Sammael advancing furiously on him. Then he saw only the merciless stars streaming away from him, before the water of the canal slapped him so silly that, for a time, he saw nothing.


	18. Whore

CHAPTER 15: Whore

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have stayed the night with Avaleen.

Rand wouldn’t have minded pleasuring the Sailmistress, despite the unwelcome feeling of being obliged to do it. She was an attractive and interesting woman. If she’d simply propositioned him, he’d have gladly accepted her offer. He just hadn’t liked feeling that he had no choice in the matter. That being the case he really shouldn’t have stayed the night, for when he let himself out of her cabin the next day he was met with several sets of entirely too knowing eyes.

They’d done it again that morning. It had pleased Avaleen to kneel on the bed as he stood behind her, pounding away. It pleased her a lot in fact, for between moans she’d urge him to fuck her harder. Some part of Rand still felt he shouldn’t be as happy to obey her as he was, but with her tight pussy wrapped around his cock and her lovely brown ass shuddering beneath the impact of his hips, the pride and dignity he’d spoken of before seemed a bit less important than they had been.

If it had just ended at that, he’d have been content. But it hadn’t ended there. It had only begun.

It was the Deckmistress who took it to the next stage. Ala had been nice to Rand since he’d come aboard the  _ Liberty _ . She’d shared many a smoke with him, and they were sharing another while watching the world sweep by when, smirking, she broached the topic.

“So. I hear you were busy last night. ‘Hard work’, was it?”

Rand felt his face grow hot. “Ah ... There was ... w-work, I guess. If that’s what you want to call it.”

Ala laughed. “Well it’s to be expected. Handsome lad like you, out in the world without a copper to his name.” It was to be expected that he would have to work as a whore, was what she meant. Rand wished he could be as offended by that as he once would have been, back when life had been simple and clean. “Was it just a one time thing?”

“She said I could work off my passage to Tear,” Rand said emotionlessly.

“Well, pretty as you are, with that exotic colouring, I expect you’re good at it.”

“I try.” Though always before he’d tried because he cared about those he was being intimate with, not because it was his duty to do so.

“If you’re free right now, why don’t you show me,” Ala said.

Rand blinked, and turned his gaze away from the water below. The stocky, greying woman didn’t blush or shuffle her feet or any such, but she still looked a bit embarrassed to be propositioning him in such a manner. He wasn’t sure what to say in response. He didn’t really want to make love to her. He had too much on his mind just then, and though he liked Ala well enough, he didn’t really like her in that way. But wasn’t this his job now? To service the  _ Liberty _ ’s crew?

A way out occurred to him. “Your hammock is in with the rest of the crews’. Wouldn’t that be a bit awkward?”

The Deckmistress nodded. “Of course. It might be different for the shorebound but, since there are a lot of families and couples among the crews of our ships, we have Privacy Cabins for this sort of thing. I can show you the way.”

Not able to think of another excuse, not wanting to be rude, and not sure if he was even allowed to refuse, Rand nodded his consent. He tried not to see the faces of those they passed, and tried to tell himself he was only imaging the snickers.

The room Ala led him to was fairly spacious, mainly to account for the double bed that was bolted to the wall opposite the door. It was dimly lit, with only the one lamp bolted to the wall opposite a small, circular window. A pair of chests with towels damp and dry, clean and used, arrayed upon them, completed the furnishing. Ala took a wooden placard from the inside door handle and moved it to the outside one instead, before sealing them inside.

“It’s as easy as that. Now we’re all private.” Her expression said she was looking forward to this. Rand pretended to be inspecting the room more, in order to prevent her from getting a good look at his face, which he was sure showed nothing of the same anticipation.

He was still trying to compose himself when strong brown arms reached around his waist to caress the muscles of his stomach. He gave a start but managed to stop his impulsive move to pull the hands away.

Callandor, he reminded himself _ . I must prove that I really am the Dragon Reborn, before more innocent people are killed. Killed by me, because they were trying to save the world from me _ .

He hadn’t got very many clothes left to remove, so it wasn’t long before he was standing there naked in the strange room being fondled by the old woman. Her touch urged him to turn around, so turn he did. He bent his head to kiss her at her urging as well. She didn’t urge him to caress her; he did that much of his own free will, running his hands across her wide ass and touching her soft breasts through the fabric of her blouse.

Before long they were on the bed and he was helping Ala shed her clothes. Rand was a little surprised to find that he had grown erect while they were making out. He’d have though the reluctance he still felt would have kept him soft. He wasn’t fully hard, true, but he was hard enough to attend to her. So that was what he did.

It was a strange feeling. Liking someone but not wanting to sleep with them, yet being obliged to do so anyway. It would have woken old memories if Rand had let it. As it was, he kept those memories at bay as he worked to bring Ala her satisfaction.

Work was the word for it, too. He felt no desire for Ala, but tried to do right by her nonetheless. His cock squelched in and out of her pussy at a steady tempo, growing stiffer from the admittedly pleasurable feel of her sex against his, while his hands sought out sensitive areas to stimulate. It seemed to do the job, judging by the look on her face. Sweat soon misted her lined cheeks, though it was Rand doing all the work. Her breasts, and the many folds of her stomach, shook in time with the swaying of his hips.

He kept up his pace and his ministrations until Ala’s mouth opened in a wide and silent scream, one that ended with a long sigh. Knowing she was satisfied, he stopped and waited for her to recover.

“You have talent,” she told him afterwards.

Rand made himself smile at the compliment, no matter how little he wanted to.

He used the towels provided to slowly clean up afterwards. Or at least, he used them to clean as much as could be cleaned. He knew himself to be beyond cleaning.

He was a whore now. And Ala was far from the last to seek his services. Once word got around about what he was, quite a few Sea Folk proved interested in using him.

He attended to those jobs without complaint, keeping  _ Callandor _ ever in his mind. That was all that mattered, he kept reminding himself. Getting to Tear and claiming the Sword That Is Not a Sword. Proving once and for all that he was the one true Dragon Reborn. Assuming that was what he was, instead of a madman too far gone to realise he was mad. The compassion and honour that would once have stopped him from killing good men in pursuit of his goals had been set aside. The pride and dignity that would once have made him turn his nose up at such a profession as this would have to be discarded as well.

He was a bit surprised by his own stamina. He recovered faster than he used to, and needed less sleep at night. He felt stronger as well. He’d never kept track of how long his past dalliances had lasted so he wasn’t really able to compare, but those he was involved in on the  _ Liberty _ certainly felt like they were lasting longer than usual. He would have liked to think it just the result of all the exercise he’d been getting, but he had a dark suspicion as to what was causing the change. Alanna’s unwelcome presence in his mind seemed to grow more noticeable whenever he thought about her, so Rand tried to think about her as little as possible, even while wondering at the changes in his body. She wasn’t in the Theren anymore, he could tell that much. He hoped she was going back to Tar Valon, or to the Pit of Doom perhaps, just so long as it was somewhere far away from him.

There were some clients who proved particularly difficult for Rand to deal with. One was Jimena din Kubert Fast Bail, the friendly young sailor with whom he’d been spending most of his free time on the ship before taking on this new role.

Rand liked Jimena. She was pretty and nice, with a winning smile. While very short, she was fit and healthy, a combination that reminded him of his friend Anna, and so endeared her to him. If he hadn’t been what he was, all that he was, from a male channeler to the Dragon Reborn to a lowly whore, he’d have liked to have gotten close to her. But he  _ was _ all of those things. And while she didn’t know the full extent of his depravity, she knew enough now to change the way she treated him.

He knew she’d heard about that first night with Avaleen, for she’d looked at him with wary consideration during the day that followed. When she heard about what else he’d been doing, she grew even more distant. Rand would have allowed her her distance, thinking the scorn she doubtlessly now felt for him entirely fair, but chance and a sailor’s duties brought her near the spot at the stern that he had chosen for his brooding one morning. He was thinking about Avaleen, and the things they’d talked about the night before, so he didn’t notice Jimena at first. When he did at last see her, his first instinct was to apologise for having ignored her.

“That’s alright. I’m just inspecting this rigging,” she said. “Pay me no mind.”

“So long as you don’t think I was being rude.”

“No, I ...” Jimena went silent and then turned away to continue her work. He found himself watching her. The frown she wore looked out of place on her face, to his mind. The girl certainly didn’t look out of place in the rigging though. While all of the Sea Folk moved with the swaying grace of those who spent their lives balancing themselves against the swells of the waves, Jimena was even quicker and more graceful than the rest.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said at last. “I was just surprised. I didn’t think that you ... Ah ... You know. I’ve never met one of you before.”

Rand grimaced. Light help him, the last thing he wanted was to be defined by that. “It’s just something I have to do, for now. I don’t plan to do it for long.”

“Of course, of course. Who would?” Jimena hooked an elbow and a knee through the rigging and hung there looking down at Rand glumly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was mean.”

“No it wasn’t. It was just honest,” Rand sighed. “There’s no need to apologise for that. It’s a virtue. Give me honest scorn over dishonest praise any day.”

“I don’t scorn you. You’re nice and you’re brave. You helped fight the pirates. I feel sorry for you. I wish you had married a nice woman who could take care of you, before you had to resort to ... that. It makes me sad.”

Rand huffed a wan laugh at that. He wasn’t quite sure what he felt right then. Her pity made him want to cry, but it also got his back up. “Thanks. It’s not all bad though. There’s a certain satisfaction to be found in giving pleasure to people. Well, depending on the person at least. If it was just people you liked that came to see you, it wouldn’t be that bad at all.”

“I see.” Saying no more, Jimena returned to her task and her frown.

He would have thought that the end of it, but that evening, while he was still cleaning up after a client, Jimena slipped quietly into the Privacy Cabin to see him.

Surprise made him stupid, so all he managed was a weak hello. It fell to her to do the talking.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About not minding if it’s someone you like. And I’m glad. I wouldn’t want you to be miserable or anything. I was worried about you.”

“That’s nice of you.” Jimena had been looking everywhere but at his eyes. When he spoke, she glanced his way and smiled briefly before looking away again.

“So, I was thinking,” she continued nervously. “You and I, we get along well. At least I thought so ...”

“I thought so, too.”

Her smile returned in force. It made a smaller one to appear on Rand’s face. “So. Um. Since you’re here. And you don’t mind. Could ... I mean, you’re really pretty. I can’t promise to take you away from all this. I’m just a poor sailor. Sorry. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to, ah, a-avail myself of your services. Is that okay?”

_ I wish we’d met in different circumstances. In a different world, or a different life _ , Rand thought sadly. But wishes wouldn’t do him any good, now would they?

“If I can bring even a moment’s happiness to such a sweet and beautiful girl as you, then I’m more than willing,” was what he said.

She smiled and came to him then. He had to bend almost double to touch his lips to hers. That wouldn’t do, it was too awkward. So he picked her up, easily supporting her weight, and kissed her properly. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, leaving him to make a little sling of his hands for her round and surprisingly firm bottom to rest on.

She liked kissing, did Jimena. She was good at it, too. Even when he laid her down on the bed and began to tug at her clothes, she only let their lips part for brief moments. Once freed of her loose top, Jimena proved to have a somewhat boyish figure, with narrow hips and only a slight curve to her waist. Her breasts were small and the hard nipples that tipped them looked almost black against her dark brown skin. She was beautiful.

As was the smile she gave him when he told her as much.

She let him rid her of the rest of her clothes, and lay there naked on the bed as he stood to strip himself down to his skin. Her dark eyes took in all there was to see of him, and her smile took on an entirely different flavour. She welcomed him back with yet more kisses, right up until the moment when her wet pussy welcomed his finger inside. After that, she was too busy moaning in pleasure to kiss anyone. She spread her legs wide, wider than was needed, in truth, as he fingered her.

She ended up taking three of his fingers, but that was not enough to satisfy her. Her hand on his cock was sign enough of what she wanted. Her feet resting atop his shoulders sign enough of how she wanted it. Rand positioned himself above the dark little woman, who looked away when he smiled down at her.

Jimena proved to be impressively flexible, so much so that, after taking hold of her own legs, she was able to fold her feet behind her shoulders, leaving herself stretched open and vulnerable. Despite—or perhaps because of—the circumstances, he had the feeling that she wanted to be so. She was such a nice girl really. He touched the side of her face with his palm even as he touched the slick entrance to her body with the tip of his cock.

Smiling brightly, she met his eyes as he eased himself inside her hot and wet pussy, but he noticed the effort it took. Her gaze slipped away several times as they coupled, and she had to force herself to look back at him. To set her at her ease, Rand leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips.

“You’re a beautiful girl, Jimena,” he whispered between kisses. A light giggle was her only audible response, but her eyes ceased their nervous darting and began to rove over his face and body instead.

Though she’d demanded his services, Jimena let him do what he wanted with her body. And though he’d resented the lack of choice he had, Rand did everything he could to make sure she enjoyed herself. He drove her to orgasm, there on her back, then eased her over onto her hands and knees before driving her to a second one while feasting his eyes on her womanly bottom. He was trying for a third when he felt his own pleasure about to break free.

Jimena was in his lap by then, reaching back to grasp the headboard as she rocked her hips in time with his. Sweat dotted her body and her long, black hair swung free when she tossed her head back and forth, just as it had each time she’d been close before.

_ I just need to hold out a little longer _ , Rand told himself. It was no easy task though, not with the sight and the feel of her. He brought his thumbs to bear, using them to rub insistently at her nipple and the little bud than crowned her sex. Her moans grew louder but that, too, served to increase the insistent press of Rand’s own loins.

Just when he was sure he wouldn’t be able to hold it in any longer, Jimena threw back her head and screamed loudly. Her tight little pussy clenched around him and wrung out his come. By then, he was quite glad to let it flow. They collapsed onto the bed together, thoroughly sated.

Things between them changed again after that. Jimena grew more relaxed in his company, but also more distant. Rand knew she would forever define him by the job he had done. He regretted that in a way, and reminded himself of  _ Callandor _ often when he happened to see her about the ship.

There were others such as her with whom the work was far from onerous.

Once, a fresh-faced and slightly plump girl, whom he’d noticed loitering nearby all morning, approached him when no-one else was near and quietly asked if he was available. He’d thought her plain at first, with her round face devoid of expression. But when she smiled at his affirmation, it brought out the contours of her cheeks. She was prettier than he’d first realised, and perhaps a bit younger than him, with long black hair that fell to her back. Her skin was lighter than some of the Sea Folk’s, but darker than others’; a rich brown colour.

The girl gave her name as Prada and giggled nervously as she did so. She said she’d meet him in the private room. From the way her eyes darted away from his to watch their surroundings, he knew she didn’t want anyone to know she’d used his services, so he didn’t even bother suggesting they go there together.

Just as she’d waited for a quiet moment to ask him, she waited until no-one was looking to slip into the room, where Rand had by then been left twiddling his thumbs in boredom for some time. Her giggled apologies made it hard to dislike her.

She kept giggling as they undressed, and the sight of her pert young breasts and thick thighs soon caused his manhood to stir. She seemed reluctant to take charge, for all that she’d asked his services, so Rand took matters into his own hands. And, after he’d eased her back onto the bed, into his own fingers and tongue as well. It took a while to stir her pot to the boil but, by the time he was done, her juices were trickling down into the crack of her cheeks, and her giggles had turned to moans. When he looked up he found her staring open-mouthed down at him, her dark eyes shining.

Two fingers curled just so, the thumb of his other hand to rub her spot, and his tongue against her folds. Soon her breasts were reaching for the deck above as she arched her back and tried to smother her cry of pleasure.

He didn’t know her, but he wanted her anyway. So, when he asked her if she wanted more and she groaned out a “yes”, he wasn’t at all displeased.

Her arms welcomed him when he climbed atop her, and her tight little pussy welcomed his cock as well. He rode her like that for longer than he’d expected to, with each thrust forcing a little gasp from her lips. It was only when she locked herself to him, arms, legs and pussy all clamping, that he felt a sudden imminence of orgasm. He kept fucking her hard as she came again, and soon afterwards flooded her pussy with his seed.

Prada got shy again when they were done and didn’t stay long. At her request, Rand left the room and looked about to make sure no-one was nearby, before returning and telling her she was clear to leave.

He had thought that would be the end of that, but she returned a few days later, once again avoiding all gossips, and once again welcoming his cock inside her. He didn’t mind, since it was her. She seemed nice enough, and he liked the way she smiled over her shoulder at him as she was turning around to show him her plump butt.

Whether she preferred that position or had simply grown more confident, she was more active on her second visit, and bucked her hips against his as he rode her to orgasm.

Not all of his sessions were as easy as those with Prada though. He’d have preferred not to indulge Margaret, for example, an older woman with a sharp smile and breasts that hung to her belly button. Not because he disliked the way she looked so much that he disliked how full of demands and criticisms she was. He’d met people such as her before, who made it a hobby to find reasons to complain or put others down, and would have preferred to keep his distance. But indulge her he did, dutifully pleasuring her while she called him names, all while burying his thoughts deep down inside.

At other times he had difficulty motivating himself, in part because he had no personal connection to the people who visited, and in part because he simply didn’t find them attractive. There was one woman, in her forties with narrow hips and curly black hair cut close to her scalp, who refused to even give her name. She simply wanted him to be quiet while she rode his cock. That was hard, in no small part because he wasn’t. It took quite a bit of self-stimulation to get himself ready, and even then he felt as though he was always on the brink of letting her down. It was a relief when she finished and went on her way. Despite the recent stimulation and the lack of a climax, his cock was as low as his mood once the door closed behind her.

When he found himself in such positions again, Rand discovered it was best to use his mouth while covertly trying to stir his flaccid cock with his hand. That alone was rarely enough, so he had to resort to picturing past lovers in his mind. He shied away from thinking about Min, Nynaeve, Anna, or the other girls who were dear to him. It just wasn’t right to think about them while doing such things. But Avaleen herself seemed fair game, so he often imagined it was her that he was servicing as he fucked the less attractive members of her crew.

She gave him ample fuel for his imaginings, too. A passionate woman, Avaleen. While they both worked during the day, albeit at very different jobs, they spent every night of the journey to Godan together, exploring each other’s bodies. And minds.

It soon emerged that part of Avaleen’s ill mood was due to the Tairens themselves. They’d grown reluctant to let the Atha’an Miere trade in their ports lately, claiming that they were robbing good Tairen merchants of their coin.

“As though striking a better bargain than your rival was the same as robbery!” Avaleen scoffed. “I had better goods, shipped in from Tarabon. And because the customers knew value when they saw it, I am to be called a thief?”

Tear had placed tariffs on the Sea Folk traders at first. And when that hadn’t worked, things had gotten a bit uglier. Atha’an Miere visitors to the city had been attacked, whether by angry locals or men sent by the High Nobles, Avaleen could not say. But it had scuppered her plans either way.

“My father’s plans, I meant to say,” she hastened to add.

Rand nodded acceptance of that, but privately he had his doubts. Their laws might call for the Cargomaster to do all the trading, but he suspected she was paying no more than lip service to that law. And good for her, so far as he was concerned. People staying in their “proper place” was not at all a virtue, to his mind. He hadn’t intended to tell her that that last, but the words slipped out anyway. Avaleen avoided his eyes and spoke no more afterwards, but she cuddled against his side and slept soundly that night.

For more than a week of such nights Rand worked his way to Tear while the  _ Liberty _ meandered its careful way between the islands than dotted the Bay of Remara.

His status as an outsider among the Sea Folk crew was solidified by the jobs he undertook. For some, such as Agatay, it only confirmed their initial bad impression. For others like Jimena it lowered their opinion of him. For Vicky din Jamka, the Windfinder’s apprentice, it turned him into a creature of curiosity, one worth stalking.

Seemingly devoid of shyness, she confronted him the day after the pirate attack, planting herself in his path with her fists on her hips. “I thought you were an archer. Does everyone on the mainland learn how to shoot a bow then?” she demanded to know in her high-pitched voice.

Rand had nowhere else to be, so he decided to indulge her, despite the rude introduction. “No. But almost every man learns to shoot, in the place I was raised.”

“Where’s that?”

“The Theren. Some say it used to be part of Manetheren.”

Her wild hair barely moved when she shook her head. “Never heard of it. Why are you working as a whore then? Don’t you want to be a hunter, or a soldier? Are you lazy?”

He ground his teeth while reminding himself that she was still young. He hadn’t always been the soul of courtesy or tact when he was her age either. “Do you do much hunting? Or fishing, I guess. Even if you don’t, there must to some jobs you have to do that you don’t like. Skinning the deer, gutting the fish. That kind of thing. I need to get to Tear and I don’t have anything else to trade for my passage. So I do what I must.”

“Hmph. Still seems weak. I’d get a different job.”

“Good for you. Hold to that resolve,” he said as he stepped past her and went on his way. He was privately glad that he’d managed to keep his temper, but it had been a close thing.

He’d hoped that would be the last he saw of her. Vicky spent most of her time with the statuesque Ororo, who remained aloof and distant from Rand. They were usually off somewhere in private, and when they were not they were careful to avoid speaking in front of the outsider. It didn’t bother him, but it did mean that he was taken aback each time Vicky appeared with a new question.

And appear she did. She questioned him about hunting on her next visit, and found the topic nakedly fascinating. He doubted the Sea Folk did much hunting, given that they spent most of their lives on their ships, and Vicky certainly hadn’t. Even simple things, like the need to keep an eye out for broken branches on the lower part of a tree when tracking large prey, left her entranced.

Ororo had to come fetch her that time, while sparing a cool look for Rand.

Vicky was curious about his scar as well. She wanted to know how recent it was and if he’d gotten it in battle. That was one of her favourite topics. Battle. For his part, Rand tried to avoid going into detail about the fighting he’d seen but, as with hunting, she ate up even the smallest scraps and asked for more. He avoided talking about the Shadow, of course, but mention of the Seanchan—which he’d thought a safer topic—had her gaping just as widely as if he’d named the Dark One.

“The invaders! They stole some of our islands! My brother Peter says we should sink their whole fleet to show them not to mess with us.”

“I certainly won’t weep if you do.”

“Did they steal some of the mainland, too?”

Rand took a moment to consider how much he could safely tell her. “They tried to. Even managed to keep some for a while. But then the people joined forces to throw them out.”

“Did  _ you _ fight?”

“Yes. I didn’t like it though, and neither would you. Bards and gleemen have much to answer for in the way they describe battles.”

Vicky sulked over that. “How else are you supposed to get your stuff back? Ask nicely?” She stalked off before Rand could frame a response.

She didn’t stay away though. Day after day she came back to him with a new question. He had been onboard for a fortnight when she cornered him again, while he was down in the cargo hold carrying more of the Supplymistress’ burdens, and demanded to know if the shorebound had blue hair as well as red.

“Or green maybe? Purple would be pretty.”

“What? No! Where did you ...?” Rand found himself trapped between scorn and embarrassment. It wasn’t so very long ago that he’d been gaping at anyone who didn’t look exactly like a Therener. And despite having seen somewhat more of the world now, he’d still done a bit of gaping when he’d first met the Sea Folk and seen how dark they all were. It was hardly unexpected that this girl would gape at the “shorebound”, as she called them, in the same manner that Rand himself had done. “I’ve seen people with hair of yellow, red, brown, black, white and grey. All in various shades. Never those other colours though,” he explained as maturely as he could. “And eyes of brown, blue, grey and green. Oh, and yellow.”

“Weird. So many different colours. There probably could be purple or blue as well,” Vicky said with a firm nod.

Rand had a hard time imagining it, but he’d once have said the same thing about someone with near-black skin and spiky hair like her. So what did he know? “I guess it’s possible.”

“I won’t get to see it. We aren’t supposed to leave the ships when docked in foreign ports. It’s dangerous, the officers say.”

“It can be,” Rand allowed. “People have tried to rob or kill me during my travels. Your officers are just trying to keep you safe.”

Vicky folded her arms across her chest and said no more about that. He’d thought she would leave again. She tended to do that as soon as he told her something she didn’t want to hear. But this time she lingered. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable for Rand, but the words that broke it were.

“Is it free for everyone? Or just the Sailmistress?”

There were no shy looks or wicked smiles from Vicky. She stared at him as grimly and intently as if he was a target she was shooting for.

Rand knew her meaning. It was something he still didn’t like to talk about openly, so he spoke a little more roughly than he’d intended. “Everyone. Until Tear. Then it’s over.”

“We’ll be there by tomorrow,” she mused. There was a moment’s silence and then she said, “Alright!” A sudden resolve lit her eyes and firmed her jaw. “You have to kiss me now!”

Rand pursed his lips, but only to frown down at her consideringly. “Are you sure about that? Don’t you have a special friend that you’d rather get close to?”

“Like who? Asheron? Gib? They’re just loud, they haven’t done anything.”

Conscious of how much he towered over her, and how thin the ice he was walking on was, Rand went to one knee. “They’d be closer to your own age though. Asheron’s twelve, I think. You’d be his age, right?”

“I’m thirteen!” she objected, as though that one year made all the difference in the world.

Rand ploughed on. “The Sailmistress seems fond of him. Wouldn’t you rather kiss someone you’re fond of, instead of the likes of me?”

“You’ll do,” she said. She suddenly placed both hands on the sides of his face, closed her eyes, and leaned forward to touch her pursed lips to his.

Beyond feeling that she was wasting her attention on him, Rand didn’t object to the girl’s kiss. Her age mattered nothing to him, though he well knew that it would matter to others. She would certainly be more pleasant company than some of those he’d entertained on this voyage. He kissed her back, slowly and softly, just the lightest brushing of her lips. It was enough to make her shiver.

Leaning back, Vicky squeaked, “I’m going to the Privacy Cabin. You come, too.” Her dark cheeks did not betray her, but he could still tell she was blushing. “B-but deliver those to Stefany first. She’ll be mad otherwise.” With that, she turned around and rushed off.

Rand did as she suggested before making his way to the now-familiar room. Everything was as expected, save for the naked girl sitting at the foot of the bed.

Vicky was a skinny little thing, big-eyed and pretty. Her budding breasts, which rose and fell with her rapid breathing, were tipped by even darker nipples.

Closing the door behind himself, Rand smiled for her. “You look very pretty.”

“Thanks,” she giggled. “You do, too.”

He wasn’t sure if she’d had any lovers before. He suspected not. And so suspecting, he resolved to take his time with her. It might have been a job, and one he hated himself for doing, but in this particular case he was determined to make sure it was a job he did well.

He stripped as he went to join her on the bed, noting the way she stared at his flaccid manhood once he revealed it to her. He let her stare her fill, only sitting down when she raised her eyes to his. He kissed her then, an arm around her shoulders, and a hand resting on one knee. Bold as she was, he could feel her nervousness, so he stayed like that for some time, kissing and petting, until the trembling stopped.

Vicky’s own hands had begun to wander by then. She seemed to like his muscles, though it was his hair which proved her main interest. She ran her hands through it once and then kept them there, combing her fingers through the red strands. Her kisses grew bolder after that. She leaned into him, seeking a deeper contact, and so pressed her breast against his side. He could feel her hard nipple, so, seeking clarity, he slid his hand up her smooth leg to touch her equally smooth sex. Brushing his fingers across her lower lips, he found them wet with arousal.

She moaned softly when she felt an unfamiliar hand touching her private parts, and opened her thighs to allow him easier access. Her head rested against his shoulder as she let him explore her plains and valleys; her fingers dugs into his flesh when he first probed her warm cave.

“Would you like to be on top, or should I?” he asked.

“I ... I’m in charge,” Vicky said breathlessly.

“So you are, “Rand said gently. He scooted back up the bed, his by now erect cock swaying with the motion. Her eyes found it and bulged. They followed his movement and so did the girl, who crawled along the bed until she was at his side. There she hesitated.

“Swing one leg over, like you were straddling a chair,” he advised.

She did as bid, and gave him a good view of the glistening, ebon folds of her pussy in the process. Rand’s cock twitched of its own accord.

“I know where it goes,” Vicky giggled. He took that to mean she didn’t want any further instructions, so he lay back and let her do her thing.

She used her hands to explore his privates first, just as he had done with her. Despite her youth, her palms were callused from work. They still felt wonderful when they stroked his shaft and carefully weighed his balls. As fascinating as she seemed to find the feel of him, it wasn’t long before Vicky was raising her hips high and pointing his cock towards her entrance.

Despite being obliged to allow her to use him, Rand felt an undeniable sense of intimacy as he watched the little girl lower her dark and hairless pussy onto his cock. She was breathing heavily with excitement, and gave an “oh” of wonder when she first touched her wetness to his tip. More of the same followed as she stretched herself around him and began to slide down his shaft, the sounds growing louder and louder until she squeaked, “Oh, Light!” and came to a halt.

He was barely a third of the way inside her and could tell from the suddenly increased tightness that it really was her first time. Vicky knelt over him with her hands resting on his chest, poised trembling on the verge of womanhood. He stroked the rigid muscles of her thighs as he waited for her to make a decision.

“I know it will hurt,” Vicky said, somewhat embarrassedly, when the moment had stretched too long.

“No shame if you want to stop. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

She gave him a fierce smile. “I’m not so weak!” So saying, she clenched her jaw and sat down forcibly. Her buttocks made a loud slap when they hit against his flesh, but Vicky took the pain in silence despite the grimace that knotted her brow.

“Brave girl,” he said. Her grimace eased off, and a smile slowly took its place. Knowing she’d need time to adjust, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her down into his embrace, murmuring, “Come here,” as he did so. He kissed and petted her some more then, something she was quite happy to let him do.

Eventually, Vicky began to rock her hips, the shallow motion rubbing her insides against the unfamiliar thing now lodged within her. He touched her hair as they kissed, and found it surprisingly spongy; it resisted all efforts to muss it up. The skin of her back was smooth to the touch, the slight curve of her waist enticing, the flesh of her pert little bottom temptingly squeezable. She gasped when he gave into that temptation, and the rocking of her hips intensified.

“Do you like that?”

“Uh huh.”

He kept kneading her buttocks, but simply rocking against him soon proved too little to satisfy her. She sat up in his lap and began running her lower lips up and down his shaft in an almost desperate way. He certainly didn’t object to the frenzied ministrations of her tight pussy, or to the sight of the wide-eyed girl in the throes of discovery.

Frustrated desire showed in every line of her body as she bounced in his lap. Sensing she was close, Rand slid a hand around to rub against the dimpled top of her soft folds. Loud whimpers and a sudden increase in her pace were his rewards.

“That feels so good!” Vicky cried. She squeezed her eyes shut and her hands suddenly snapped from his chest to hers, where she took a hard grip upon her own small breasts. A high-pitched scream erupted from the dark little girl and she sank down onto him as deeply as she could go.

Rand lay there and watched as Vicky brought herself to what he was almost sure was the first orgasm of her life. Though circumstances and necessity had made him her whore, something he should have been ashamed of, he actually felt a sense of pride as he savoured the naked wonder on her fresh young face. When the shudders had finished running through her, leaving her almost cross-eyed with pleasure, he impulsively pulled her back down into his embrace and planted a kiss on her lips. Lost in the moment, Vicky didn’t hesitate to kiss him back.

She lay sprawled atop him for some time, kissing and cuddling, her juices drying upon his still-hard privates. Eventually, her head came to rest against his neck and she gave a soft sigh.

“I wish you weren’t leaving so soon now.”

While this had been one of the more pleasant encounters he’d had onboard the  _ Liberty _ , Rand couldn’t in all honesty agree with her there. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” was all he said.

Vicky exhaled loudly as she disengaged them and rolled off of him. There was blood on his now exposed cock. Not his. The sight of it seemed to embarrass her. “I should go,” she said. “I’m supposed to be working the night shift. To make sure I don’t forget how to work like a regular girl, you know?”

Rand didn’t know, though her words intrigued him. Why would Vicky be considered an irregular girl among the Sea Folk? Why did she and Ororo so often seem to stand apart from the rest of the crew? He was tempted to ask her directly, now that she was relaxed and comfortable with him, but wariness kept him silent. It probably wasn’t anything that mattered to his mission, and he didn’t fancy swimming the rest of the way to Tear should they react badly to his nosiness.

“I hope I’ll see you again before I leave,” he said with a smile.

She ducked her eyes. “I’d like that.”

He watched her dress to leave, savouring the sight of her lithe young body. Sweat and lamplight did wonderful things with the movement of muscles under her dark skin. Once she’d hidden herself from his admiring eyes, Vicky went to the door. She paused there, looking back over her shoulder and chewing on her lower lip.

“This was really fun.” A cheeky smile lit her face. “You should still be a hunter instead though.” She darted out of the room before he could respond, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his raging hard-on. It wasn’t the first time a client had left Rand unsatisfied, but it was the first time he felt obliged to use his hand to see to himself before dressing. He’d have been left wandering the ship with a tent in his breeches otherwise.

No-one else approached him that evening, so he was waiting outside Avaleen’s cabin when her shift ended. She didn’t smile in greeting, as she usually would have, but just said his name as she walked past and opened the door.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as he joined her inside.

“No,” she said unconvincingly. Frowning, she went and helped herself to a cup of wine from the padded chest in which she kept her breakables.

“Would you like me to leave?”

“No!” Avaleen looked away, embarrassed by the haste of her response.”It’s not you. I’ve just been thinking about Godan. My last visit there didn’t go too well.”

“And we’ll arrive there tomorrow.” Where Rand would be free to go on his way and continue his quest.

“Yes,” she said, glum now. “You’ll be free then. And I can finish my business with Estevan Bocento.”

He hadn’t heard that name before, but he hazarded a guess based on past complaints. “Tairen merchant?”

“One with an interest in Cairhienin goods. Rarities on account of the war being fought there.”

Rand frowned. “What could be worth getting mixed up in that mess?”

“I asked him much the same. Even if the Silk Path had still been open to them, we have trade routes of our own to Kigali. The price he offered was tempting though, and if he wants to throw his money away who am I to stop him?” She didn’t sound very convinced of her own words though. After a moment, Avaleen tossed the empty cup back into her chest with more force than was needed. “I should have demanded the full payment up front. We Atha’an Miere live and die by our word. By the Bargain. But Tairens? I don’t know what they live by. What any of the shorebound do.”

“You’re worried he won’t pay?”

She faced him then, the lamplight reflecting sharply in her dark eyes. “I worry that he tried to get me killed. Worse, that he tried to get my crew killed. Those pirates you saw weren’t the first to accost us.”

“I see.”

“Do you? You are shorebound, like him. Is there something you can tell me about this?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never even been to Tear before, much less met this man. There’s a lot of difference between the shorebound nations. I can’t comment on what a Tairen merchant might or might not do. I’d bring backup when I went to meet him though, if I was you. Armed backup.”

“I intend to. I won’t make you, but I’d like it if you came, too. You might see something that I don’t.”

“Me?”

She shrugged. “I know you aren’t a Tairen, but you are closer to one than I am.”

He wasn’t so sure about that. The Sea Folk were famous traders, the Tairens commanded one of the greatest port cities in Valgarda. Rand had never even seen the sea until last winter. They’d probably have more in common with each other than they did with Thereners like himself. But maybe Avaleen knew something that he didn’t. The answer he ended up giving her was noncommittal, but she accepted it without further argument.

Her glum mood hadn’t shifted, so he went to her and hugged her from behind. “It will be okay.”

“I know,” she said, patting his hand. “There are other contacts I can cozen. It’s just annoying.”

“Do you need one? You can’t just sell your goods yourself?”

“With those tariffs? No. The Tairen merchant’s guild doesn’t seem to have much clout, but a local like Bocento who could sell the goods for me would increase my profits significantly, so long as their cut was not too steep.” She smiled. “My father’s profits, I should have said.”

“Of course.”

“Besides, locals usually know their own markets better than we can. I’d need one of those spy networks such as the Aes Sedai are said to have if I wanted to figure out the best place to sell every little thing. Trading in bulk is better, when you travel as far as we do. Let the smaller traders sort out the smaller details.”

It was all over his head. Just as his head was over hers. He rested his cheek atop her braids and breathed in her scent. “But who to trust?”

“Exactly,” she sighed, relaxing into his embrace. “It’s a pity you aren’t a merchant. I’d trust you. And then I could come visit you.”

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Would you?”

“Yes,” she said, and turned her face towards his. The touch of her lips made him tingle all over. He still felt that it shouldn’t. But it did, fool that he was.

Her ardour rose swiftly as they kissed, and soon she was arching her back, her buttocks pushing against him as her breasts strained upwards, fair crying out for his hands. He found them, and squeezed their delicious softness through the silk of her blouse.

Avaleen turned into his embrace and took him by the elbows, tugging him back towards her bed. He undid her sash as they went, loosening the rest of her clothes in the process. When they reached the bed he pushed her lightly backwards before reaching down to pull off her loose trousers, exposing her lower half, the strong brown legs and the tight black curls that coated their apex. She rid herself of the top, eager now, before coming back to her feet and locking her lips to his once more.

Once she’d stripped him of his clothes, Avaleen turned around and bent over to show him her hidden treasures. He thought he knew what she wanted, so he knelt behind her, touched his lips to the soft folds of her pussy and sought out the pink centre with his tongue. But though she gasped in pleasure at his touch, it was short-lived.

“No, not there. Higher.”

Rand was confused. The only thing higher was her dark little butthole, nestled between her round cheeks. He fondled the latter with his branded palms, exposing the former in the process.

“Yes ...” she urged, breathless with excitement.

“Oh!” He’d never done such a thing before. He hoped she had cleaned herself thoroughly, the last time she went. With undeniable reluctance, Rand stretched out his tongue and touched it to Avaleen’s ass. The taste was not as terrible as he’d feared, and the loud gasp of pleasure she let out helped to ease his discomfort. He liked to tease such noises from women, even in situations as awkward as this one. The touch of his tongue became less hesitant as he went on, and before long he was running it around the soft circle of her ass and making her shudder in pleasure. Reaching around, he toyed with the Sailmistress’ pussy while he reamed her butt. With that dual assault, it didn’t take very long at all for him to bring her to a screaming climax. He found that he quite liked the way her butthole twitched while she was coming, so he lavished special attention on it while she was moaning in wanton pleasure before him, her juices slickening her thighs.

When she was done, Avaleen collapsed face-first onto the bed. Rand traced the curves of her bottom, hips and back with his hand as he climb up beside her.

“Well. Someone’s enjoying herself,” he teased.

“You have that effect on me,” she laughed. But her smile faded away like summer rain. “Thanks. I know I haven’t been kind to you. I have no excuse.”

He looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “Just get me to Tear. That’s all that matters.”

“What is there that could be so important?”

Rand sprawled on his back and stared at the cabin’s ceiling, his hard cock slapping against his belly. “I’ll know when I get there. The truth. Once and for all. Everyone will know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I ... Let’s just say that questions have been asked, and answers must be given.”

She sighed. “Alright. Keep your secrets. But let me have this at least.” Her hand upon his cock made plain her meaning. The gentle way she caressed the tender skin there was far more arousing than the rough groping he’d often had from others among the crew.

He rolled over to embrace her, and sought her lips, down near the bedsheets. A brief kiss she allowed, but she resisted his efforts to turn her over. A coy smile was the only response to his questioning look, so Rand kissed his way across her shoulders as he climbed around behind her. She parted her legs invitingly, but when he touched the head of his cock against her pussy, she spoke in a voice made throaty by passion.

“No, not there. Higher.”

Rand was surprised. “Really?” She bit her lip, refusing to respond. “Well, I certainly won’t object.” He rested his elbows on either side of her and used his hips alone to aim his stiff cock, rubbing it along her slit to seek out her back entrance, still slick with his saliva. Once there he wiggled himself around a bit until her tight hole was pressing all around his tip. Then he pushed forwards, slowly and steadily.

Avaleen lay passive beneath him until the head of his cock popped past her protective ring and penetrated her body. Then her hands snapped over to grip Rand’s. Whether she was seeking comfort or urging him on, he couldn’t say. But her grip tightened as the full length of his cock slid slowly and steadily into her bowels. Rand went balls deep inside her in a single long thrust, and loved every second of it.

“Now that’s a sweet little ass,” he said in a low hiss. Her shiver sent pleasure coursing through him. Another slow stroke brought more such shivers, and soon Rand was mindlessly seeking more, his cock moving in and out of Avaleen at a steady pace.

His hands sought the Sailmistress’ breasts and pussy as he buggered her, kneading and cupping and probing them as much for his own pleasure as for hers. That she was enjoying this new position was something she could not hide, not with her nipples poking out like that, or with such a sodden patch growing on the blanket beneath her. Some sense of pride drove her to try though, and it was only on a particularly firm thrust, or when his fingers found a tender spot, that a cry of pleasure escaped her lips. Rand enjoyed the sound, and made it his business to force as many such cries from her as he could.

His earlier dual assault had driven her to a screaming orgasm. This new, three-pronged attack almost broke her entirely. When Avaleen came her ass clenched around Rand’s cock even more tightly than before and she began thrashing upon the bed, her legs kicking mindlessly and her braids flying as she called out for the Light, for Rand, and for someone or something called Coramoor. Her pussy squirted against his palm, and her hands gripped the sheets in a death grip as she gasped for breath.

_ How strange _ , he thought. He was obliged to pleasure her, but having the ability to bring her to such a wild orgasm made him feel powerful rather than powerless. And though she’d already had her satisfaction, Avaleen lay supine beneath him, uncomplaining of the way Rand continued to ride her, his cock pounding in and out of her ass as he sought his own orgasm. Despite all that had happened, he just couldn’t find it in himself to resent her, or dislike her, the way that he somehow thought he should. If anything, he thought he might actually love her a little. There had to be something wrong with him.

“I’m going to come,” he grated suddenly.

“Do it,” she gasped. “Fill my dirty little ass.”

With that, his romp came to an abrupt end. Bottoming out in Avaleen, Rand began pumping his come into her. Each new wave of pleasure forced another shuddering breath from his lungs as he strained atop her, arms locked, shoulders high and hips low. Though he’d done little except have sex this past week, the orgasm still went on for a shockingly long time. When at last it was done, he collapsed atop her, his cock still lodged in her body but his eyelids already drooping closed.

“Rand. Roll over,” she said after a moment, not unkindly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He managed to get onto his side, but wasn’t sure he could do any more than that just then.

“Don’t be. Not after that,” she said, laughing softly. His softening cock was still inside her when she manoeuvred herself into the sheltering cove he’d unwittingly made for her. She pulled his lax arms around herself like a cloak and pressed her back to his chest, settling in.

“That’s nice,” he might have whispered then. He couldn’t be sure though, for sleep already had him in its grip.


	19. Just Another Job

CHAPTER 16: Just Another Job

Of all those who availed themselves of Rand’s services during that long week, there was one who proved the most difficult of all. He’d been difficult from the start, truth be told, but after realising what Rand was doing to earn his keep, he became worse.

It seemed petty at first. He’d alter his path when crossing the deck so that Rand had to step hastily out of his way. Or he’d stare at him silently in a way, and for a length of time, that couldn’t be anything but deliberate rudeness.

It was several days after that first night with Avaleen when Rand finally snapped at him. They’d met in a narrow corridor below decks, and he’d politely stepped up against the wall to allow Sten to pass, only for the man to tread on his foot anyway. It didn’t hurt—he was wearing boots, and Sten was barefoot—but it was one more jab in a long line of them, so he’d snapped out, “Watch where you’re walking!”

Pausing, Sten gave him a flat look. “If you were significant enough to notice, I wouldn’t step on you.”

Rand scowled. “Funny. I thought you must be going blind in your old age.”

“So you do have a spine. Pity you don’t use it.”

“I am,” he said coldly. Callandor.  _ Whatever it takes _ .

“I spoke too soon then. You’re spine must be as soft as a seanettle’s.”

He took a deep breath before responding, made his voice calm. “You know what, Sten? I really don’t care what you think. Of me, or of anything else, for that matter. Why don’t you just go and live your life, and I’ll live mine. Preferably somewhere far away from you.”

Sten grunted. “Life is not a journey that ends with you arriving or not arriving at your destination. Life is what you do. Life is the duties you fulfil. The farmer who buys a shop is never a merchant. He is always a farmer-turned-merchant. He carries his old life with him as a turtle carries its shell. Our duties define us. Always. If you did not wish to be ever defined as—” he looked Rand up and down scornfully, “—this, then you should not have accepted the job.”

Nostrils flaring, Rand pressed his lips together. That cut far, far too close to the bone. He’d been clinging to the belief that when he reached Godan he would part with the Atha’an Miere and leave this sordid experience behind him. Safely in the past and never to be spoken of. But that wasn’t how it worked, was it? He doubted he’d see any of the crew again, but he’d still have his own memory of what he’d done here, and why he’d done it.

“Exactly,” Sten said, as though he could read Rand’s mind. “And so I grant you a salt name. Rand din al’Thor Low Tide.”

A bitter smile twisted Rand’s lips. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’d rather I did nothing? You’ve no idea how quickly you’d come to regret that. I’ll do whatever it takes to fulfil my destiny. I don’t expect thanks or respect, and I don’t need them either.” A little bit of both would be nice though, that was for sure.

Sten sneered. “Destiny? Destiny is superstitious nonsense. Do you have any idea how many drowned sailors I have seen with six-pointed stars on their hands?”

Rand folded his arms and looked away stubbornly. “We’ll see soon enough.”

“Perhaps we will. I hear you’re available to any of the crew who care to use you. Then get down on your knees.”

He blinked, and felt his cheeks flush. None of the Sea Folk men had approached him in such a manner before. He’d dared to think that they were all disinterested in other men. Sten’s intentions were clear though. And as he had pointed out, Rand’s duty defined him now.

The Atha’an Miere man’s hard and dour face did not change as he watched a thoroughly humiliated Rand kneel on the deck in front of him. It didn’t even change as he widened his stance and lowered his baggy breeches far enough to reach down the front and fish out a thick, heavy cock as dark as the rest of him. The men of the crew all went bare-chested, as Rand was, so he’d gotten used to seeing their chests and stomachs, whether heavy or thin, flat or fat. Looking up at Sten from that changed perspective, however, reminded him of how muscular he was for a man of his years.

“Well?” he said, presenting his semi-hard cock to Rand. “Suck it.”

He’d been right in what he said. Rand would carry the memory of what he’d been and what he’d done with him for the rest of his life. He knew it. Even as he took the warm flesh in his shaking hand, he knew it. And when he opened his mouth and closed his lips around that dark cock, he knew it then, too.

A knowing grunt was Sten’s only reaction, other than the rapid swelling of his member. At first Rand had been able to take it in far enough that the man’s curly, grey pubic hair tickled his nose, but soon Sten had grown so much that he had to draw back. It stretched his jaws and tickled the back of his throat before it mercifully stopped growing.

It wasn’t the first time Rand had sucked another man’s cock, but it was the first time he found himself using his tongue and lips to stoke the pleasure of a man he disliked. That was harder to deal with than the act itself. The approving sounds Sten made when his bulbous head was licked, or when Rand’s lips slid halfway down his veiny shaft, were not welcome. The hand that rested atop his head was not welcome either; it almost made him clench his jaws, before he remembered that he had something in his mouth. He responded instead by reaching up and massaging Sten’s balls, not out of a desire to pleasure the man, but out of a desire to get this task over with as quickly as he could.

He was conscious, too, of the fact that they were out in the open. Most of the Sea Folk were either sleeping or on duty, since they worked in shifts, but there was always the chance that someone would happen by. Rand didn’t want anyone to see him like this.

The Pattern, of course, cared not one whit for what he wanted.

The creak of a door was his only warning, and too poor a warning it was. He hadn’t time to do more than look in the direction of the sound before someone stepped out into the corridor. In such a hurry was the youth that he’d taken two steps towards them before he froze in place. His bare chest helped to avoid any confusion that his girlish features might have caused. Rand knew him. Asheron din Gronpre, Avaleen’s eleven-year-old brother, whose mother had died birthing him, and whom she’d all but raised. She was very fond of him. He was not very fond of Rand.

“Oh, burn me! Could you not do that somewhere else?” he said. He looked away in disgust, his lazy black curls shielding his face from them.

Rand’s own face blazed, but he couldn’t look away, not with Sten’s cock still in his mouth.

“Duty waits for no-one. Man, woman, or whore,” Sten said. Rand hated the way he could sound so sage and yet so mocking at the same time. The insistent movement of his hips was a reminder to Rand that he still had a job to do.

“Well get it over with then. I want to talk to my sister,” Asheron complained.

So it was that Rand found himself with an unwanted and unwelcome audience for the rest of his performance. He squeezed his eyes shut as he sucked Sten off, but he was unable to escape the fact that Asheron was there, if not watching, then certainly knowing.

Eventually, Sten’s cock began to twitch. “Make sure you don’t get the deck dirty, Low Tide, or you’ll have to scrub the whole ship clean,” he warned. Soon afterwards, he felt something surging along the great tube in his mouth, and braced himself for the deluge. And quite the deluge it was, a flood of thick, salty come, spilling out to taint ever inch of Rand’s mouth. The bitterness almost made him gag. Especially when he was forcing himself to drink it. Despite the near-rebellion of his stomach, though, he was able to get it all down. Only when Sten had stopped spurting did Rand feel free to remove the cock from his mouth and sit back on his heels, shoulders slumping.

“Some people ...” Asheron whispered, then continued more loudly. “Can I get by now?”

“Yes. I am done. What interest could I have in staying?” Sten said. He covered himself up, and was already strolling away as he retied his sash.

Rand’s eyes were fixed on the floor, but that didn’t stop him from hearing the words Asheron spoke as he went by. “Why my sister would waste her time on the likes of you, I will never know.”

That was a mystery that Rand had no answer to either. The only thing more mysterious was why so many others did the same.

He had little to say to anyone for the remainder of that day, so low was his mood.

It got worse the day after. He didn’t know if Sten or Asheron had gossiped, or if the man who barged into the Privacy Cabin would have come anyway, but the result was the same either way.

Chonsee din Roose Steady Hands was his name, and he was the ship’s Hullmaster. Rand knew little more of him than that. He hadn’t been very friendly when they’d first met, and he was a long way from friendly that afternoon. His plain face contorted as he ranted about marriage vows and the respect of his children. He asked if he didn’t already have enough to put up with, to which Rand had no answer. The man was a virtual stranger, after all. It was only when he mentioned the name “Margaret” that he understood. Chonsee’s wife, it seemed, had been one of the women who’d availed themselves of Rand’s services, and from the hostility he showed it was plain that she’d told him about it.

He’d only meant it as a joke. A last ditch attempt at lightening the mood. Admittedly, a part of him really did think that Chonsee should be grateful that he’d distracted her for a while and given him some peace, but he wouldn’t have said it if he knew the man would take it so hard.

Or that he’d have to take it hard as well.

So it was that he ended up on his knees while the fat and balding sailor banged him as roughly as his age and belly would allow.

“Take that!” Chonsee would growl as he thrust. Or, “That’s what you get! Blasted pretty-boy whore! Try to make a fool of me, will you?” And so forth.

Rand took it all in silence, wondering when his ordeal would be over. He’d never been with such a fat man before. It was an odd feeling, having a thick belly resting upon the small of your back while a thick cock stretched your butthole.

It was an odd sight that awaited him, too, after Chonsee had finished his business. The old man looked confused and regretful as he got off the bed and fixed himself up. From the look of him, you’d have thought it had been someone else’s idea. Having spilled the last of his curses along with his seed, he left the room in total silence, leaving Rand to sit there with a sore butt and a sore heart.

Still. Life was not without its small mercies. Even if Sten and Asheron had indeed spread the word about Rand’s ... open-mindedness, there were fewer Sea Folk men who visited him than there were women. It was mostly Sten, who seemed to delight in dominating and embarrassing him. He came by almost every day—after that first—of the journey south, to demand, and receive, another blowjob. Rand avoided having to do it in public again by leaving the Privacy Cabin as little as possible when he knew Sten was on duty.

Even that didn’t guarantee his safety though. One clear night, near the end of his ordeal, when he was out getting some air, his peaceful observation of the stars and the crescent moon was interrupted by a familiar, low voice.

“You are not seen above decks as often as you were, Low Tide. Do you enjoy these duties that much?”

“No,” Rand answered, quickly and honestly. There were those among the  _ Liberty _ ’s crew whose company he would have enjoyed in different circumstances, but the oppressive weight of his obligations had tainted too much of his stay, and made ugly what could have been otherwise.

Sten came to stand beside him at the railing. Even in the moon’s light, he was almost invisible. “You attend to your duty well, low as it is. I will allow you that much. It would be better if you hid your displeasure with the situation, however.”

He snorted bitterly. “You want me to pretend to be happy that I have to work as a whore? No.”

“Happiness is fragile. Nothing can be built upon it that will last. Only duty endures. Your duty would be better performed by pretending happiness. It would please those you service better.”

Rand grimaced, at a loss to explain, even to himself, why the idea of faking pleasure was more distasteful than the work he had done this past week. Rather than examine his own thoughts, he probed Sten’s. “You don't think happiness—real happiness—is important? What is the point of living then, if not to enjoy life?”

“You can learn to find happiness in doing your duty, in serving your people. There is no need to search for it. Children and fools do that. They never succeed.”

“Happiness is heavier than a mountain, misery lighter than a feather,” Rand muttered.

“What nonsense are you speaking now?”

“Never mind.”

“I won’t then.” Sten grunted at something. “The moon reminds me of you. Pale and gently curved. Though I have not seen the roundest parts of you yet.” Rand flushed, knowing what he was referring to. “And you will be leaving us soon. You’re debt repaid. I wonder if I will take advantage of this opportunity ...”

He waited, while Rand’s heart pounded in the silence. He waited, and he made Rand ask the embarrassing question. “Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Will you take advantage?”

“Oh yes. Come to the stern. There is no-one there at this time of night, and I wish to see the moon ...”

Sten padded off, and Rand had little choice but to follow him. He’d agreed to work his way south, after all. He just hadn’t expected to find himself doing this sort of work.

The back of the ship was as empty as Sten had promised, but that didn’t calm Rand’s nerves. What if someone came? Other than Sten, of course. He’d definitely be coming soon. At least Rand wouldn’t have to swallow it this time.

“You don’t have much in the way of clothes,” Sten told him, truthfully, “but lose the boots and the breeches. I want to see you.”

He would have to have good eyesight to see anything at this time of night, no matter how bright the moonlight was. Rand bent to take off his boots and stockings, before unbuckling his belt and letting his breeches and smallclothes drop. Goosebumps rose across his skin as the chill night air touched him all over, much as Sten’s gaze did. He could feel the eyes on him, though the man himself was just a looming shadow in the night.

“You take my use of ‘roundness’ very literally. It was not those that I spoke of.”

“I know,” Rand groused. He was tired of Sten’s mockery. But he still turned around and let the man look upon his bottom.

“Pale and round ...” A callused hand brushed against Rand’s flesh. “And smooth. Yes, that is just the inspiration I needed.”

Rustling cloth sang with the wind of the ship’s passage, but whatever beauty the sound might have had was spoiled by the sound of a man spitting loudly into his hand. Rand didn’t assume the position. It was a petty thing, but it felt important to him to make Sten make him. This was his job for now, but that didn’t mean he had to do it eagerly. Not that Sten seemed to care. Big and strong, he pushed Rand towards the railing and bent him over it. Dark as it was, he could still see the water frothing from  _ Liberty _ ’s passage.

Strong hand’s played with his cheeks for a while, before something warm and heavy and much less nimble than a finger slapped down upon them. Sten’s manhood was big, but Rand vowed to take it in silence. Not only would it lessen the chance of anyone catching them, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of having forced any sound from his lips.

He pressed his teeth together and took a white-knuckled grip of the railing when he first felt that dark, Sea Folk cock pressing against his hole. Its thickness, and the power that Sten put into his thrust, forced Rand up onto his toes before it finally popped inside. The initial penetration was painful, and Sten went deep at the first attempt. The silence Rand had promised himself, he was able to deliver, if barely. But that didn’t mean he didn’t squirm and buck as Sten’s forced his way deeper. He let out a long, low breath when he felt a pair of thick balls finally press up against him. He felt incredibly full.

“As I thought. This smooth, pale ass was made to be buggered. You need not fight so hard to deny your nature. Here, let me help you. How strong are your teeth?”

“My teeth?” Rand asked.

Sten took hold of his hair and pulled on it painfully. Rolled up cloth, silk, came around Rand’s head, filling his mouth and stilling his tongue. The gag was tied tight, and Rand’s protestations came out as muffled nonsense.

“There. Now you have something to bite down on. None need hear as I do this.” With that said, he began buggering Rand in earnest, his long, thick cock pumping in and out of him hard and fast. It hurt, and it was humiliating, yet as the pounding went on, and the pain eased, a hot and irresistible pleasure began to build in his rear. Gagged like that, he felt free to let out the occasional moan. If Sten noticed the sounds, they had no effect on the tempo of his thrusts. He just kept pounding away at Rand’s ass, brutally seeking his own pleasure.

It was with some alarm that Rand felt his manhood stiffening. He was the glad of the darkness that hid his growing erection from the Atha’an Miere who was using him so roughly. He hoped Sten finished sooner rather than later. It would be hard to hide his shame if he came from this.

But Sten was a man of some considerable stamina. He went on and on, his cock stroking against places deep inside that drove Rand’s arousal higher until he had to adjust his hips to stop his fully erect cock from banging against the wooden rail.

“Good,” Sten grunted. “As I said, they will enjoy it more if you wiggle like that.” He gripped Rand’s hips between his hands and sped up the pace, and Rand did indeed find himself wiggling. Just to get it over with quickly, he told himself. Not because it felt good in there.

Thought faded. Some distant part of him knew his unrestrained groans were being muffled by the silken gag. Some part knew that he was being taken by a dark man in the dark and cool night. But the pressure inside and the pleasure building along with it filled too much of his mind. He needed release, and that big cock was driving him closer and closer to it. Closer, and closer, and ...

“HHMMM!”

The night flared to sudden, formless light as, untouched, Rand’s cock began spurting his seed out over the bay. That he had been milked in such a way by Sten would, he knew, as awareness returned, haunt him for the rest of his days.

Somehow, with that being done, the rest of his ordeal seemed unremarkable. Sten pounded away, unknowing or uncaring of what had happened. Eventually the movement of his hips ceased and a hot fluid began pumping into Rand’s bowels. He took it in silence. Not long after that the pressure inside him eased, leaving him stretched and soiled. He could hear Sten breathing heavily, and the rustle of cloth as the man righted himself. The knot was undone, the sash reclaimed, and Rand had completed another job. He straightened up and tried to gather his thoughts.

Sten was, Rand had come to learn, a man of long silences and long speeches. Silence was his mood just then. He left Rand in it, only pausing briefly at the edge of sight, one shadow among many. “We are what we let ourselves be,” he said.

The words brought no comfort, nor were they intended to. But they were no less true for that.


	20. At the Docks of Godan

CHAPTER 17: At the Docks of Godan

Tucked away in the southeast corner of Valgarda, Godan was a peaceful city. Or so Rand assumed as he stood at the  _ Liberty _ ’s prow studying their destination. The Sea Folk were busy working to bring the ship into dock, but his tasks were done at last. Soon he would be free to continue his mission.

Callandor _ . And the end of doubt _ .

While Godan was bigger than Falme or Fal Dara, big enough to rival Cairhien in fact, it had no walls or towers for defence. There was no fearsome and fearful fortress in the heart of the city either, at least none that he could see. Red-roofed buildings of white stone crowded the shore and stretched back west almost as far as he could see. Isolated it might be, but Godan didn’t lack for industry. People bustled all over the docks, loading and unloading ships both great and small. Fishermen could be seen everywhere, some heading out into the bay, others just now coming back with nets full to bursting. It was all so sedate that Rand sent up a silent prayer that he’d be able to pass through town without causing another disaster.

The Tairens themselves seemed to be a diverse bunch, with most being closer to Avaleen’s colouring than his own, despite her claim that he had more in common with them. Almost all of them were tanned, either by nature or the sun, with dark hair being more in evidence than light. At least among those he could see. A lot of the people were wearing wide straw hats to keep the sun off, with the women’s being brightly dyed. The working men had shed their coats and boots to go bare-chested and bare-footed, wearing nothing but a pair of baggy breeches that they tied up at the shin. The women, even those that he could see working alongside the men, wore high-necked dresses in spite of the heat.

No few of those workers paused in their labours to watch the Atha’an Miere soarer approach. It wasn’t one of their bigger vessels, he’d been told, but it was still a match in size for any of the Tairen ships he saw and more than their match in speed, as all folk knew. There was admiration and envy in the gazes of those who watched, but he detected no hostility. That was good. A smooth passage through. That was all he needed.

Avaleen called her orders and the Sea Folk brought their ship smoothly into its berth against the stone dock. While they made safe the vessel, Rand felt a rising impatience, a need to be moving. It was the same nagging, tugging, demanding urge that had driven him to leave Min and the others and set out for Tear. Destiny awaited him in the Heart of the Stone. He had to go there. Now.

So when the gangplank was extended, Rand was the first to stride down it. Men and women in clothing of richer colour and cut to those who worked the docks were gathering on the other side, but he paid them no mind. They were there for Avaleen, not him.

Despite that, she paid them no mind either. “Rand, wait!” she called as she hastened after him.

He was no longer obliged to take her orders, and that nagging urge to go was still there, but he stopped and waited anyway. He would probably never see her again otherwise.

There was a satchel in her arms, along with one of the quilted coats that the Atha’an Miere wore in rough weather. Her rocking gait brought the eyes of many of those she passed down to her hips, but he didn’t think that intentional—it was just the natural way she moved. Her face was as carefully blank as her voice when she caught up to him. “You forget these.”

“Thank you,” Rand said. They walked a little farther away from the merchants, seeking privacy.

“It’s just a few things to help you on your journey. Food, water. Flint and tinder. A blanket and a coat,” Avaleen said in a low voice.

His first impulse was to tell her that he was in her debt, but Rand had grown too wary to say it. Wiser perhaps. Or just more cynical. “That’s very kind of you,” he said instead.

A sad smile touched her lips. “They’re free. My gift to you. Free.”

“Thank you,” he said again, more warmly this time. He took the coat from her and pulled it on. It fit as well as a tailored one.

His surprise must have shown, for Avaleen grinned. “I picked one that best matched your measurements. I’ve had plenty of time to take them, after all.”

Rand snorted softly. “And I yours, don’t forget.”

“I won’t. You may not believe it, but I’ll miss you.”

If Rand could help it, he’d never again do what he’d done on her ship. And yet ... “You may not believe it, but I’ll miss you, too.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Callandor _ . The Stone. Destiny. Go now _ .

Rand’s feet fought his heart, with neither knowing what they wanted. After a minute, he sighed. He was a soft fool. “Do you still want me to go to that meeting with you? I’m not sure how much help I would be, but if you want me to go I will.” At least he could keep her safe, if this merchant whose name he’d already forgotten really did mean her harm.

“Would you? I think a fresh perspective would help.”

Rand slung the satchel over his shoulder without looking inside. “So long as it is soon. I really do need to get to Tear.”

“I intend to meet with Bocento this evening. All my other business has to wait until I know where I stand with him.” A few hours then. He could wait that long. Just to be safe. She smiled at his nod, and gave his forearm a squeeze.

While Avaleen returned to her ship to organise her crew, Rand found a spare piling to sit on, where he could watch everyone going about their day.

He got more than a few curious looks, as much due to his clothes as to his height and colouring, he suspected. Someone like him would not often be seen dressed like an Atha’an Miere. He noticed some people peering at his ears, where no golden rings could be seen, and smiled to himself.

He noticed Vicky, too, leaning on the starboard railing with her chin in her hands. She looked down, and while she was far enough away that he couldn’t tell what she was looking at, she returned the discreet wave he sent her.

The sun was just short of the horizon when he became aware of someone staring at him. The still and silent figure to whom his gaze was drawn was as dark of skin as any of the  _ Liberty _ ’s crew but his curly hair was as yellow as a sunflower. Rand blinked at the sight.  _ That has to be dye _ . Not many men dyed their hair, certainly not where he came from. None of the Sea Folk he’d met had either. This fellow wore three thin golden rings in his ears, two in the left and one in the right: the markings of an experienced Atha’an Miere deckhand. Yet he was dressed as drably as any of the Tairen dockworkers and had a pair of odd, wooden shoes strapped to his feet. The Sea Folk all went barefoot. The man studied Rand with a bewilderment that mirrored Rand’s own.

“Are you crewing on this ship?” he said at last. His accent, at least, was a match for that of Avaleen’s crew, cresting high and dipping low.

Rand shook his head. “I was a passenger. Are you one of Avaleen’s?”

“He is not,” a harsh voice insisted. A group of familiar faces was approaching from where the  _ Liberty _ was docked. Avaleen was in their midst, with Agatay and Ororo, but it was Sten who led the way, his sword and dagger thrust through his bright red sash. And it was he who had spoken. “This one is a problem that should have been dealt with long ago,” Sten continued.

“He is not wrong,” Agatay murmured to his daughter, whose stern gaze rested on the newcomer.

“I don’t mean any harm,” the man said, raising his hands in the universal sign of peace.

Oddly, it wasn’t Sten or Avaleen that he was looking at, but the white-haired Windfinder, who watched him guardedly. “Then perhaps you should have respected our laws better. I see that has not changed,” she told him.

“You should not approach us, Daru. I have told you. You are as a ghost to us. To all Atha’an Miere,” Avaleen said coldly.

His mouth downturned, the man—Daru—turned his face away. “I just came to look. And I was speaking to him, not you.” He pointed his finger at Rand. “That isn’t forbidden to me, too, is it?”

“It is heavily implied to be,” Ororo drawled. “Had you stayed in your place, it certainly would have been.”

“Well I don’t care who speaks to me,” Rand said, instantly irritated by her talk of places. “What did you do to get them so mad, Daru?”

“That is not your concern,” Ororo said firmly.

“As much as it pains me, I have to agree with her there,” said Daru.

Rand shrugged. “Fair enough. Just curious.” He looked to Avaleen. All of the Sea Folk men with her were armed, and she and Ororo had their daggers with them as well. He himself still lacked a weapon, but if worst came to worst with this merchant they were going to meet, he could always resort to  _ saidin _ . It would turn the Sea Folk against him, and cause a furore throughout Godan if any of the locals saw him channel, but he didn’t mean to linger here anyway. And once he got to the capital—Tear itself—there would be no more hiding. One way or another, for good and for ill. “Are we ready to go then?”

“You go first, storm-bringer,” Sten told Daru, who gave him a flat, unfriendly look. Even so, he turned and walked away. His slow and lazy gait taunted the older man, but Sten did not rise to it.

For some reason, as he watched the stranger leave, Rand felt on odd sense of loss. As if he was watching a kinsman depart on a long journey. He frowned to himself. That made no sense. Could it be a sign of the madness creeping in? “That was a bit harsh. He didn’t seem so bad. And he wasn’t even armed.”

“As a fish stranded by the tide knows the air or a drowning man knows the sea, so does a man like that know danger,” Sten said. “He was rightly exiled.”

“Why?”

That won him another of those scornful looks. “For the same reason that you shorebound would not light your own houses on fire, or invite locusts into your fields.”

“Well that explains everything,” Rand sighed.

“So long as he keeps his distance from us, we will ignore him,” Avaleen decided.

Sten touched his fingers to his heart by way of salute, but his eyes still tracked Daru’s progress through the crowds ahead, and there was no kindness in them. Well, it was none of Rand’s business. Callandor, he reminded himself, as he fell in with the Sea Folk party.

Godan’s streets were unpaved, something which wouldn’t have bothered Rand at all if the muck he walked on was not so wet. It made the footing uncertain and revealed to him the purpose of those odd wooden shoes Daru had been wearing; they were tall enough to keep your feet out of the much and gave a better footing. Many of the locals wore them, and those that didn’t carried thin walking sticks to help them keep their balance.

With the sun falling, many Tairens were making their way to their tavern of choice, and many more had already arrived. Sounds of laughter, music and song marked the time of their march to the meeting place.

Sten wasn’t very moved by the music, somewhat unsurprisingly. He peered into the tavern they were passing and scowled. “Very innovative, making a place for idiots to gather where they won't be underfoot,” he scoffed.

Avaleen looked at Rand and rolled her eyes. “Less complaining and more watching,” she said.

The warehouse they were bound for proved to be farther away from the docks than Rand had expected. It was out near the edge of town in fact, where darkened fields could be seen stretching westward.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The nobles don’t want anyone trading with us these days,” Avaleen said. His suspicion must have shown on his face. “That could be why he doesn’t want to be seen.”

“Were there any limits set on how many people you could each bring along?”

Avaleen nodded. “With some it’s best to appear friendly and trusting. With others you must show that you are watching carefully or they will take you for an easy mark. Bocento struck me as the second kind.”

Including Rand, they were thirteen. An unlucky number. He reached for and grasped  _ saidin _ as they drew closer to the warehouse. Despite the rancid taint that coated it, an undeniable thrill shot through him when he filled himself with the One Power, but that wasn’t why he did it. His vision sharpened, and sounds and smells became clearer while  _ saidin _ was in him, allowing him to study the darkened building in greater detail. A tension he hadn’t quite realised was there eased off as well. Rand refused to sigh like a drunkard who’d just quaffed his first ale of the evening, but doing so took more self-discipline that he cared for.

He saw no signs of ambush, so said nothing as Sten marched up to the warehouse door and pounded it with his fist.

The man who stepped out was tall and rough-hewn, with weathered skin. He wore his dark hair cut close to his scalp, and a heavy leather coat that fell to his knees. There was a sword strapped to his belt and a hard glint in the blue eyes that he ran over the visitors. His gaze paused on Rand for a moment, and noted how out of place he looked, before he greeted Avaleen.

“Master Bocento is waiting for you.”

“I appreciate his punctuality,” she said, to which the guard grunted before stepping aside.

The first thing Rand did on stepping into the spacious building was to count the number of Tairens. Thirteen, as agreed. They were all male and all armed. But that Bocento had kept to his side of the bargain boded well.

The man himself bore a certain resemblance to the guard that had greeted them, save that he was plumper, older, and had longer hair. He sat in the middle of the room, behind a lone table that had obviously been moved there just for this meeting. A single empty chair awaited his guests. Bocento smiled as he welcomed Avaleen and the others back to Tear, but the smile did not touch his eyes.

“How was your trip upriver?”

“Eventful,” Avaleen said, her voice as blank as her face. “We were, of course, able to acquire the goods you requested.”

“Of course. No-one sails better or trades harder than the Sea Folk, I always say.”

Rand could see why she’d put him in that second group of hers. Boncento had the kind of insincere good will that he’d always disliked. But if there was to be a threat it wouldn’t come from him but from the men spread out around the warehouse, so he turned his attention to them while Agatay discussed their deal, his daughter hovering at his shoulder and occasionally whispering in his ear.

Open lofts surrounded the central area in which Avaleen was conducting her meeting by proxy. The ladders that would have led up to them had been set against the far wall, and it was too dark to see what was up there, save for the boxes nearest the front, but he found himself staring up suspiciously anyway. Her wariness might have infected him. Or perhaps it was the taint working on his mind. He kept staring though, and listening, too. Was he imagining the rustle of cloth?

Sten and the rest had formed a semi-circle around Avaleen, and were keeping a close eye on Bocento’s men, but Ororo stood in the middle of that semi-circle, her hands folded behind her back. She would have looked as statuesque and unapproachable as ever, save that she, too, was studying the lofts, and her brow, usually so unnaturally smooth for one with hair so white, was marred by a deep frown. Her eyes met Rand’s and an understanding blossomed between them. She gave a tiny nod.

_ I’m not imagining it. There is someone, or someones, up there _ .

Rand hadn’t really been listening to the talk at the table, but Agatay’s raised voice drew his attention. “That is not the price we agreed!”

There was a stirring and a muttering among the gathered peoples, one that Bocento didn’t seem much concerned over. “The market is always in fluctuation, as I’m sure you know. The stock isn’t as in demand as it was when you left. So sorry, but that’s as high as I can go.”

“We have your word in writing. The price is set,” Agatay said angrily, not bothering to wait for his daughter’s whispers.

“And I have your goods in storage. My goods, I should say. The price is more than fair in the circumstances,” Bocento said with a mocking shrug.

This time Agatay waited for Avaleen before speaking. “What hope do you have to do business if the people of Tear know you for an oathbreaker? If the High Nobles know you so?”

Bocento snorted. “You think the people will come to your defence? They are tired of your stranglehold on the sea trade. They know who is to blame for how poor they are. Even the High Lords do. Burn my eyes, the High Lord Samon himself spoke of it just the other week.”

Avaleen was so incensed that she forgot to let Agatay do the talking. “We!? We are to blame for their poverty? Fool! How do you think the nobles afford all those jewels and fancy clothes? I am not surprised your High Lord tries to lay the blame at someone else’s feet, I am just surprised anyone would be stupid enough to believe him!”

“Stupid? Typical Sea Folk. Typical woman! Never satisfied and always demanding more, even when for once it is not her place to!”

“My daughter’s place is not yours to decide,” Agatay said coldly.

“I will not be insulted in my own home. Or robbed by the likes of you. You may consider the gold I have already given you payment for delivery. You’ll see not a single coin more!” Bocento did a fair job of acting offended, but there was still that hint of cold calculation in his watchful eyes.

The padlocked chest that sat beside the table looked by far the most likely place for him to have stored his coin. Sten certainly thought so, for he strode angrily towards it, while gripping his hilts as though daring anyone to make him draw them.

“Wait—” Rand began, when he saw the small, satisfied smile that flickered across Bocento’s face. But he spoke too late.

“Thieves! Murderers! Protect me! Summon the guards!” the Tairen cried dramatically.

As if channelled there, another dozen men appeared in the lofts that surrounded them, each one holding a loaded crossbow in his hands. Rand knew what Bocento intended. He’d kill them all, pocket the money, and tell anyone who asked that he’d only been defending himself.

The ambushers took aim while their allies on the ground drew steel. In a flash, Rand considered and discarded the idea of fighting their way out with swords alone. There was no chance of those bolts missing everyone. If he didn’t use  _ saidin _ then people were going to die, perhaps himself or Avaleen among them. He couldn’t risk that.

The shield he spun around them—invisible to any eyes but his own—would have been enough to stop any bolt that reached it, if any bolt had actually done so. Instead, to his shock, they stopped in mid-air, clanging against something as invisible to him as his weaving was to them, before tumbling to the ground. He wasn’t the only one to gape at the sight; he was just the only one among Avaleen’s group.

Ororo stood poised in their midst, her arms outstretched. “That was a most terrible mistake,” she said, and lightning burst from her fingertips. Blue-white beams crackled from her hands to the chests of the men in the lofts, killing them instantly. Without hesitation, she brought her hands together to point towards the final loft. The men there had just enough time to throw themselves aside, but it did them little good. A veritable wave of lightning flowed from Ororo’s hands, one that drowned the loft in death and left puddles of fire behind when it receded.

The Windfinder could channel. Was it only her? Or could Vicky as well? It would explain why they were so reluctant o speak in front of outsiders. The White Tower didn’t allow any woman to channel the One Power outside their control. Rand had only a brief moment to try to process that revelation though, before the rest of the Tairens were upon them.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if the men had fled after Ororo’s display, but instead they charged with swords raised, eyes wide with fear, teeth bared with fury. He was reminded of something that Thom had once told him. He could almost hear the old gleeman’s voice.

_ Tear hates the One Power, boy. Its use is outlawed there _ .

“Die witch!” one man shouted.

“Ignore the others! Get her before she can channel again!” commanded the one who’d met them by the door.

Order or no, they could hardly just walk through the ring of Sea Folk that surrounded the Windfinder. Swords clashed and blood was shed, wordless growls and wordless screams were loosed, the mad dog of battle unleashed once more.

Rand did not stand apart. The man closet to him paid him little heed, determined to rush past and strike down Ororo. He swung a casual blow Rand’s way, one that would have been fatal if it had landed. Unfortunately for him, Rand had a vital job to do, and wasn’t inclined to fight fair. The man’s swordarm froze in place before the blade could reach its target. It had already stopped when Rand laid hands on it as though to block the blow with them alone. He drove an elbow into the man’s face and stripped the sword from his hand but left him alive, writhing on the floor with his hands cupping a thoroughly broken nose. He could afford to be that fair. He could only hope that, in the heat of battle, no-one had noticed his use of  _ saidin _ .

The Tairens were hampered by their need to get to the Windfinder before she fried them all with lightning but they still managed to strike down at least two men and injure several more. They paid dearly for that blood. It was a short fight, as such things went, one that ended in crushing victory for the Atha’an Miere. The gate guard was the last to fall, when Sten locked their blades long enough to drive his dagger into the man’s gut and then behead him with a backhanded slash.

While his men fought, Bocento had tried to flee. He hadn’t gotten far, for Avaleen vaulted the table and tackled him to the ground. He was there still, prone on his back with her knife pressed to his throat.

Rand found himself armed for the first time in a while, but he had nothing to do with his new sword. The only enemies still alive were the man he’d disarmed and the plump merchant who’d set them all against each other.

“If you let me go, I won’t tell the guards, I swear it on the Light and my hopes of salvation and rebirth,” Bocento quavered.

“I have already seen what your word is worth,” Avaleen said coldly. “This was planned. You never meant for us to leave this place alive. Explain, and maybe I will let you live.”

“Your man attacked. I was just defend—” His lies ended in a scream when her knife slashed across his cheek.

“Try again,” she said.

Blood sheeted down the wide-eyed man’s cheek as he panted for breath. Rand felt ill. Bocento was guilty as sin, but he couldn’t find it in him to like seeing a helpless person being tormented. Ororo and Sten were helping to attend to the wounded, but Agatay stood over the prone merchant.

“You should answer her. She is gentler than I am,” he said.

“I need the money. I have family to feed,” the plump man said. “Who would take care of them if I don’t? The money I take out of other people’s pockets I can use for a good cause. They don’t need it. They’re rich already!”

“Who do you work for?” Avaleen demanded.

“Work for? I work for myself! Or, my family, I mean. My people. No-one commands me. Except the nobles, of course, but they don’t pay much attention to us so long as we stay out of their ways. Unless ... well, I suppose they don’t like it when foreigners are richer than us. Anything that takes coin out of their pockets and into ours is well thought of. Sometimes rewarded even. They would be furious if you harmed me.”

“The seas are vast. The storm’s many. Tear’s fury barely amounts to a puff of air in comparison,” said Avaleen. “Tar Valon’s is another story. And you have seen that which you should not.” With that, she calmly drew her knife across Bocento’s throat. He tried to speak again, but nothing came out save for increasingly desperate choking sounds, and soon even those came to an end.

A brief scream signalled the death of the broken-nosed man that Rand had spared. Sten’s already bloodied blade came away bloodier. It hung by his side as he turned hard eyes Rand’s way.

“What about him?” he said.

They all looked at Rand then. He saw regret in some of those dark eyes, but no mercy. He knew the Windfinder’s secret now. The threat that posed to their people was plainly worth killing over.

_ Saidin _ surged in Rand, liquid lightning and raging flames demanding to be released. He had a job to do. And nothing could be allowed to prevent him from doing it. The Windfinder was powerful, but so were the Aes Sedai, and he’d been able to defeat Alanna back at Emond’s Field. He’d defeated Geofram Bornhald’s Whitecloaks as well. Fire and blood and screams and tears.  _ Not again. Light, please not again! _

Avaleen looked as stricken as Rand felt. “I ... I don’t—”

“You know what must be done, daughter,” Agatay said.

A sudden idea seemed to occur to her. “Have you ever thought of becoming a sailor, Rand? W-we could discuss the terms later. In private. There’s a way that you could join our crew ...” Her face remained composed, but her eyes pleaded with him to say “yes”.

Her father’s face was far from composed. “Avaleen! You cannot be serious!”

“It is my decision to make!”

Rand cut in. “I swear I won’t tell anyone about what I saw here.”

The Atha’an Miere collectively shook their heads.

“Your word is not enough,” Sten said grimly. “And wouldn’t be even if you were not what you are. If it means anything, know that this is not personal.”

“What I am ...” He meant a whore, of course, but he didn’t know the half of what Rand was. “It is because of what I am that you should believe me. I will tell no Aes Sedai, or anyone else, of what I learned. And even if I did they probably wouldn’t believe me, given what I am.”

“Rand—”

He spoke over Avaleen. ”I will keep your secret, Ororo, if you will keep mine.”

The Windfinder raised a white brow. “It is hardly the same th—”

She, too, fell silent, this time with a loud gasp, when a ball of flame appeared in the air above Rand’s upheld palm. “That is not the secret I’m talking about.” He tried to make his voice and face stern, hard, like Lan’s would have been. He needed them to see him as someone dangerous and intimidating. Someone that they didn’t want to start a fight with. But inside he was anything but stern.  _ Please don’t make me hurt you. Please! I just want to go on to Tear, to reach  _ Callandor _ and end this _ .

“You can channel!” Avaleen, who’d been arguing for mercy only moments before, jumped back from him as though she’d suddenly noticed a snake in the grass before her. Agatay stepped between them, sword upraised.

“I can,” Rand said grimly. “As the last Aes Sedai who confronted me learned to her sorrow. I offer you a secret for a secret. And peace for peace. Let me go on my way, unblooded, and I will do the same for you.” He looked Ororo in the eyes. “Tell no-one of what I am, and I will do the same for you. That seems a fair bargain to me.”

Some of the Sea Folk looked to Avaleen then, but most looked to Ororo. He was sure she was holding  _ saidar _ , just as he was holding  _ saidin _ . But was she stronger than him? He doubted it, despite how composed and confident her face remained.

“Even if he told anyone, they would think him mad. Such men are cursed,” said Avaleen.

“Perhaps. But even suspicion is dangerous,” said Ororo. “We do not want the White Tower looking too closely at our ships. This man threatens all of the clans, even if he does so unwittingly.”

“The flames are spreading,” one of the younger sailors pointed out. He had the arm of an injured man draped across his shoulders. He was right about the flames, too. The fire Ororo had started when she swept the lofts of crossbowmen was well on its way to becoming a blaze.

“Good. The flames will hide any evidence that those men died by lightning instead of steel,” Agatay said. “But we will have to leave soon. Both warehouse and city. Tonight. The fire will draw attention.”

“Then only one thing remains,” said Sten, his gaze still on Rand.

He didn’t want to hurt any of them. But  _ Callandor _ was calling to him, and the work was too important to leave undone. With a heavy sigh, Rand readied himself to do what he must.

“Why are you going to Tear?” Avaleen suddenly asked him.

“There’s something I need to do there. In the Stone. It’s important.”

It wasn’t much of an answer. He knew that. While he wrestled with the idea of claiming to be the Dragon Reborn, despite still having no proof at all that he wasn’t just another false Dragon, she stared at him and wet lips gone dry from the growing heat.

Before he could decide whether to make his claim or not, Avaleen spoke. “Let him go.”

“Are you sure? He is one, we are many,” said Sten, his hand still tightly gripping his swordhilt. He looked to Agatay, perhaps hoping he would assume command, as he had during the pirate attack.

But Agatay held his silence this time. And even Ororo wore a thoughtful frown. “What are you implying, Sailmistress?” she asked.

“Nothing I care to say aloud. But I think you know.”

“Him!?”

Avaleen gave a soft laugh. “They do say that humility is a virtue.”

For once, Ororo’s reserve cracked. “But surely there must be limits!”

“Perhaps for some people.” The look on Avaleen’s face made him wonder if somehow she could channel  _ saidin _ as well. She shook her head to clear it. “I will take full responsibility with the Mistress of the Ships. But this decision is mine to make. We are letting him go.”

Though his mouth was downturned with disapproval, Sten returned his sword to his sash. The others relaxed as well. As much as they could anyway, in a burning building. Most still looked at Rand as though he was a greater threat than the flames.

He let out a long breath, and looked Avaleen in the eyes. “Thank you.”

“Why do I have the feeling that it’s me who should be thanking you,” she said slowly. She shook her head briskly, braids flying as they so often had in her cabin at night. “Go. And don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t. You have my word.”

The Sea Folk stood between him and the door. They were a loyal and dutiful people, who would usually obey Avaleen’s orders, but the idea of male channelers didn’t often give rise to calm. It was partially reluctance to walk past all those bared swords that caused him to blast a hole in the west wall. And partially the simple fact that  _ Callandor _ lay in that direction, and he had wasted too much time already. Ignoring their surprised shouts, Rand darted through the hole, into the night, and away, leaving Avaleen and her Sea Folk behind.


	21. Family Ties

CHAPTER 18: Family Ties

Aldieb’s hooves beat a rapid tempo against the mysterious substance that made up the White Bridge. Even the White Tower did not know what the ancient Aes Sedai had used to build that unnaturally thin bridge, something which might have irritated Moiraine on another day, but her mind was too full of worry over Rand’s disappearance to spare it much thought now.

“Ride ahead to the docks. Secure the fastest ship you can,” she told Lan.

He set his heels to Mandarb’s flanks and was off at once, his plain cloak streaming behind him. Ihvon wasn’t wearing his colour-shifting cloak either, and both Moiraine and Alanna kept their hoods drawn forward to hide their faces, but she well knew that their attempt at anonymity was as futile as trying to lift Dragonmount with your bare hands. Between the topknotted Shienarans, the yellow-eyed wolfsister, Loial and the Aiel Maidens—who had defied her expectations and managed to keep up with the horses despite remaining afoot—their presence was sure to be on every tongue in town before sunset. The best they could hope for was that the Aes Sedai’s involvement would not be noted.

“Can we stop yet?” Imoen managed to get out while yawning so widely she nearly split her head in two. The girl had been excited by all the new sights when they’d passed through Baerlon, but exhaustion and saddle sores had dimmed her enthusiasm. The White Bridge hadn’t even occasioned a comment from her.

“We’ll be taking ship rather than staying the night, I imagine. You can sleep once we’re onboard. Just a little longer, lass,” said Tam. The petty impulse to take rooms at one of Whitebridge’s inns flared in her and was immediately smothered. Rand was all that could be allowed to matter now. It would be necessary to bring Tam al’Thor to heel eventually, but that would have to wait until his son was back in hand. He hadn’t actively challenged her command, but his very presence was a threat. The Aiel, like the Shienarans, had gathered around him without his needing to court them. They trotted at his side even now, the pale-haired one keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead while her taller companion looked downwards, transfixed by the water below them.

Moiraine was not the only one to notice how green in the face the Aiel woman was growing. “It’s deep enough that you can’t even see the surface from the bottom, just blackness all around you while the water presses in,” Masema said. His eyes were hot with a hate that their recent alliance against the Shadow had done nothing to abate.

Despite her own nation’s bitter history with the Aiel, Moiraine did not share that hatred. Wars were an ugly fact of reality that no-one could credibly claim their ancestors were innocent of. Her Damodred kin had certainly been involved in enough of them. Perhaps that was why she spoke more sharply than she had intended to. “Enough, Masema! I have heard enough and more of your ranting. You will perform your duties in silence from here on.”

She had expected him to stammer his apologies immediately. She was Aes Sedai, and he was Shienaran. But Masema turned his dark stare on her, the hatred in it barely dimming at all.  _ Rand’s influence. Already he turns things on their heads, just as foretold _ . She hardened her gaze and stared Masema in the eyes until he looked away, his ruddy amber cheeks flushing dark.

Alanna sniffed. She kept her face expressionless but the way she regarded Moiraine out of the corner of her eye might as well have been an accusation. They’d had a rather unpleasant conversation some days back concerning Moiraine’s command of the group, and of Rand. Alanna didn’t think she had done a very good job of keeping him and the others under control. A secret part of Moiraine agreed with that. Not that she would ever have admitted it aloud, of course. But while pride had kept her from justifying herself to the other Aes Sedai, she’d been sorely tempted to point out how much worse of a job Alanna was already doing, and how disastrous her own command—if she could even have managed one!—would have been.

It was as irritating as it was surprising. Moiraine had never known Alanna that well when they were students together in the White Tower, but she remembered her as being quite shy. She wouldn’t have expected that girl to grow to be so confrontational. She must have worked hard to become so fierce. For good and for ill.

Alanna had won no respect at all from their travelling companions. Even those Shienarans who still retained their sanity regarded her with grim censure. Loial, who was usually as amiable and biddable as could be wished, avoided her company as much as he could. And the girls gossiped about her behind her back, and—in Raine’s case at least—sometimes right in front of her, saying nothing complimentary. Moiraine had been forced to support Alanna the last time that had happened. The White Tower’s dignity could not allow for Aes Sedai to be spoken to in such a manner. Yet though they had been able to cow the wolfsister easily enough, the way Uno had watched them do it, his forefinger tapping against the hilt of his sword, had troubled her.

“I don’t think the Lord Dragon would allow this,” he’d grumbled. His frown had seemed to be as much for himself as for the Aes Sedai, as though he wondered if he should have been doing more. As though he wondered if he should have been trying to stop them. He hadn’t drawn that sword. He was still Shienaran enough for that. But the idea that he’d been thinking about it had haunted Moiraine ever since. Rand again. She’d been right to want these soldiers to be separated from him.

But perhaps the most egregious example of his bad influence was Merile, the Tinker girl who’d refused Novice whites in favour of chasing off after him. “Look at the ships! I wonder where they’re headed,” she said now, standing in her stirrups to get a better view. Her clothes were as dusty from travel as everyone else’s, and the shadow around her eyes spoke of her tiredness, but somehow she still managed to sound cheerful. “Are we going to race them?”

“Probably. Shadowkiller is the heart of it all. Every path leads to him,” Raine said. The glow in her eyes was much too reminiscent of that in Masema’s for Moiraine’s liking. The cheerful Tinker and the feral wolfsister made an odd pair but they usually kept close to each other nonetheless. The time would come when Merile had to be sent off to the White Tower whether she liked it or not. They’d have to sever her ties to Raine then. And they’d have to sever her ties to Rand first.

“Stop your childish blabber, you two. We are in public, and I will not have you endangering my Warder.” Alanna’s forceful stare didn’t have the effect it should have, not even on Merile. That surprised neither of the Aes Sedai now. And also pleased neither.

“You should call him that when we find him,” Raine said sullenly. “See what happens to you.”

Moiraine studied Alanna’s outraged reaction carefully. She hadn’t snapped at Imoen for speaking, but she did at Merile and Raine. Of course, Imoen was just a childhood friend of Rand’s, while Raine was fixated on him, and Merile openly admitted to being his lover. Why exactly did Alanna direct her ire at them? What were her intentions towards Rand? Whether it was his  _ ta’veren _ nature, the Pattern’s working, or his own good looks, he’d proven to be a lodestone of amorous regard. Could Alanna share Raine’s fixation? Moiraine would have liked to think that an Aes Sedai would be more professional, but Alanna had already done that which should have been beneath an Aes Sedai to do, so who knew what she’d resort to?

Unwelcome as her company was, the others had grown familiar with Alanna during the ride. Her confrontation with the girls drew little attention from their weary companions. That was another thing she should have known better than to do. Aes Sedai should never be seen as a mere irritant, yet far too many looked on her as such as they rode past.

Even their younger travelling companions had lost entirely too much of their awe of the Aes Sedai. “It looks like glass,” little Saeri said to no-one in particular as she passed Alanna, ignoring the Aes Sedai in favour of a bridge.

She and her friend Luci were riding with Loial, as they often did now that Rand was gone. The Ogier nodded once, and then launched into another of his long tales. “It may look like glass, but that is certainly not what the White Bridge is made of. It never grows slippery, no matter how hard the rains come, and the best chisel and the strongest Ogier arm cannot make a mark on it. In his third book, Druin son of ...”

Moiraine stopped listening. He meant well, but Loial could drone on something awful at times.

When she’d last visited Whitebridge several buildings had been recently burnt, but there was no sign of that damage now. Whether the events of that time contributed to the wary looks her party got from the townsfolk, she could not say. Most avoided looking at them for too long—a startled stare, then a ducking of the eyes and a hastening away. Not everyone though. The Queen’s Guards stood their ground, frowning forbiddingly as they tried to assess what danger the newcomers might pose. So long as they did their assessing quietly, Moiraine did not care. Her interest was piqued, however, when several of the guardsmen looked towards a hooded man seated at a small table outside the tavern situated near the foot of the bridge. For some strange reason the Guards looked as though they were seeking guidance from this man.

He was tall and fit and carried himself with a confidence that belied his plain garb. A noble or an officer, she suspected. But why was he out of uniform? She could not see his face in the shadow of his hood but he seemed to be studying them. He nodded to himself as though at a suspicion confirmed, and Moiraine’s wariness spiked. She was close to embracing  _ saidar _ but held off for now. She didn’t want Alanna to think her overly nervous.

She affected not to notice the man as she turned Aldieb towards the docks, but made sure to keep him always in her peripheral vision. She noted his lack of surprise at the sight of Loial, and the way his hand tightened around the cup he was nursing when Uno passed by. The Maidens startled him. The hooded women were worthy of careful study. And the younger girls nearly brought him to his feet. Yet, for all of that, she got the impression he was still searching for something. Or someone.

Moiraine rode on, outwardly calm, while weighing risks and consequences in her head.

Alanna, her composure regained, trotted over to join her. “This ship had better be as swift as a hawk. Rand is in Tear already, unless I have lost my sense of direction.”

It would not have been a surprise if she had. She’d lost most of her other senses. Did she imagine Rand’s name was unknown? They had outrun the rumours of Falme as best they could, but had only just managed to stay ahead of them even before their ill-advised detour to the Theren. Alanna had not even bothered to lower her voice, nor did she notice the slight tightening of Moiraine’s lips, which should have been a shouted warning to an Aes Sedai.

The suspicious watcher would not be alone in attacking should it be known that they were associates of a “false Dragon”. Moiraine’s word had been enough to convince Alanna—and rightly so, bound to speak no word that was not true, as she was—that Rand was the true Dragon Reborn, but too many people were still suspicious of Aes Sedai despite the Three Oaths. She wasn’t convinced she could quell the mob that might result of Alanna’s loose lips. Not short of bloodshed.

“You might take heed of your own counsel. That which you gave the “childish blabberers” just now. That name is nowise near so common that we should be using it in public.”

Alanna’s dark cheeks darkened further, whether from anger or embarrassment, Moiraine could not say. To think she had been such a shy Novice. Dutiful and diligent. Losing one of her Warders to the Whitecloaks seemed to have unhinged her completely.

Her own Warder met them as they approached the docks. Ever observant, he noticed her small sign and kept his voice low. “The  _ Cloth of Gold _ sails for Tear tomorrow, her captain says. She looks fast enough, and he can doubtless be persuaded to leave sooner.”

Alanna drew closer to listen, and so did the hooded man who’d been shadowing them at what he imagined was a discreet distance. Moiraine finally got a glimpse at the face under the hood, and almost wished she hadn’t.

_ Complications piled on complications. The paths of the Shadow are tangled and cruel. And the Pattern’s working can be hard to tell apart from them at times. I will do what I must _ .

“Early on the morrow will do. We will take rooms. I have that which I must do tonight.”

Lan glanced at her, frowning, but he did not question her order. He would not while they were in public. That would come later.

Tam said nothing when she informed him and the others about the change of plans, while Imoen looked absurdly grateful. The first didn’t tell her anything, since Tam was not the sort of man to exclaim overmuch. The second might be useful. Imoen’s father had been among those who tried to drive Moiraine out of Emond’s Field during her first visit, a fact of which she’d been rightly ashamed. It would be worth cultivating her regard.

Lan led them to his inn of choice while Moiraine pondered how best to handle her current dilemma. The innkeeper, who gave her name as Floyd, folder her hands over her round belly as she greeted them and asked how she could help.

“Rooms,” Moiraine said, a trifle absently. “Yes. And a meal, though they can wait. What ships sail for Tear?”

It turned out there were quite a few of them. Too many for Moiraine’s liking. She deflected the woman’s questions as firmly as she did those of her companions.

“The rooms. And then we will eat that meal.”

The others were eager enough to get some rest after the punishing rush to get here, but Lan lingered behind after the innkeeper showed Moiraine to her finest room. He leant against the doorjamb and waited for a time. Only when he was sure that no-one was close enough to overhear did he turn his attention away from the hall.

“Why the sudden change of plans, Moiraine? Al’Thor is no less at risk now than he was yesterday.”

“It is tomorrow’s risk that concerns me now. You noticed the man following us, I trust?” She didn’t wait for his nod. Lan missed little. “He is an officer in the Children of the Light.”

“I see,” Lan said, after only a brief pause. “Galadedrid Mantear, I assume.”

“You are too clever at times, my Gaidin,” she said with a small smile.

“I can think of no other who might motivate you to linger here, short of the Lord Captain Commander himself. And perhaps not even him.”

He was right. She could hardly deny that, for here she was. Lingering. But the truth of his statement didn’t make it any less troublesome. She shouldn’t be making any exceptions for Galadedrid, any more than she did for Elayne. That they were related should not matter to an Aes Sedai. They were the children of Taringail, her least favourite sibling. She barely knew Galad. Yet even so, she would pause her pursuit long enough to guide him away from disaster.

“Will we seek him out, or do you want me to bring him to you?” Lan asked. Galad had impressed Uno and the others with his swordsmanship when they’d encountered him in Fontaine, enough so that they’d warned those like Lan and Moiraine who’d been busy elsewhere at the time to be wary of him. Despite that, Lan felt quite confident that he could deliver Galad to her tied up like a sack of oats.

She weighed the pros and cons of either introduction and decided to take the more familial, if not familiar, approach. “We will seek him out.”

“If he has more Whitecloaks with him, it might be best to bring some of Uno’s men.”

“No. I no longer have faith in their discretion.” Whatever Uno or Geko saw or heard would be reported to Rand the next time he convened that Inner Circle of his, the one he had so pointedly not invited Moiraine or Lan to join. A distance should be kept between Galad and him until decisions could be made about their futures. “We will deal with this ourselves, while they are busy with their meal.”

Lan nodded and then stepped out into the hallway. His boots were nearly soundless as he went to ensure their path to the exit was devoid of prying eyes. She waited for him to return and give her the sign that it was clear before walking briskly down the hall and out the back door.

She didn’t think Galad would be quite so foolish as to go into the inn, not while so many of what she assumed he’d now regard as enemy soldiers were there. He was sure to have heard about what happened at Falme by now. But even if he didn’t go inside the inn, she had no doubt he’d be keeping a close eye on it. They circled around so that they could emerge from the side streets farther away, and then took a moment to examine the buildings across the road.

He wouldn’t watch from a shop, there being too much chance of the owner demanding to know his business if he stayed there too long without buying something. And he was unlikely to be personally acquainted with any of the local folk, not enough so that they would let him stay in their homes. Either one of those taverns would do nicely though. At her nod, Lan preceded her across the street. The sight of him striding intently towards them with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword was enough to scatter the Andoran crowds, saving Moiraine the need to do so herself, and freeing her to plan out what she would say. She’d always appreciated that.

Galad was in the first tavern they looked inside. He sat at a table by the window with his hood down and a single cup before him, absently assuring a pretty serving girl that he didn’t require anything more. She was smiling for all she was worth and her shoulders were pushed back so as to best display her not inconsiderable assets. Galad didn’t seem to notice.

Was that humility or arrogance? Did he take her attention as simply the due of one so undeniably handsome? Or did he simply not realise the effect he had on women? Perhaps if she’d known her nephew better she might have been able to answer such questions. But there was no changing the past, only the future.

He recognised Lan the moment he set foot in the tavern, and his hand twitched briefly towards his hood before lowering to the table once again. The way Lan’s attention fastened upon him made it plain that his efforts at stealth had been in vain. Galad pushed his chair back in order to give himself room, but he did not rise from his seat. The swordhilt that she could see peeking above the table remained untouched. For now.

As Lan surveyed the rest of the tavern for potential threats, Moiraine embraced  _ saidar _ , filling herself with its beautiful light. She strolled over to Galad’s table and, uninvited, took a seat across from him.

“Galadedrid Mantear. You are a long way from Amador, Child of the Light.”

Prior to their encounter in Fontaine, where she had studiously avoided his attention, the last time she’d seen Galad was when he was an infant. Yet a brief peering under her blue hood was enough to make him nod. “Moiraine Damodred. My lady aunt. You are a long way from Tar Valon, Aes Sedai.”

She hid her surprise. Perhaps there was a portrait of her somewhere on the Damodred estates. Or perhaps some of her younger female kin looked more like her than she knew.

Galad flicked a glance at Lan. “And you are travelling with company.” His tone, and the way he lowered his head, made it plain that he was disappointed in her. That took her a moment to process. Almost she scowled.  _ What nerve! As though he has the right to judge me. As though I am obliged, in any way, to seek his approval. Small wonder that Elayne finds his company so objectionable _ .

I took quite a bit of self-control not to invoke the White Tower’s authority just then, but with his political views being what they now were that would hardly have helped. So she tried a warm smile instead. “The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, nephew. We who serve the Light can only let it guide us, as we ever war against the Shadow. You would agree I trust?”

Who, short of a Darkfriend, would not? Certainly not he. “Of course. Against the Shadow and all other evils.” That he looked around them, and lowered his voice before continuing, gave her hope. “Evils such as a man channelling the One Power. A false Dragon.”

Moiraine nodded earnest agreement. “False Dragon’s and those men like them who cannot resist the temptation of  _ saidin _ , even knowing of its taint, are a threat that must be eliminated swiftly and remorselessly. I have no mercy for such. I say this plainly, so that you might know it to be true.”

Galad frowned in consideration. “The Malkieri is your Warder? Then I must assume you were with him at Fontaine.”

“Of course. Who else could ensure Elayne’s safety and see her safely delivered back to the Tower?”

“Ah. I would not have ... Never mind. You have my thanks, aunt. Elayne has a terrible way of finding danger for herself, even in what one would think would be the safest environments possible. She was quite the chore when she was a child. Light help me, she still is. She went back to Tar Valon then? I might have known. I fear there is simply no helping that girl.”

That weary disappointment again, wedded to the casual assumption of authority where none actually existed. Moiraine suddenly found herself feeling sympathetic to her niece’s plight. Having Galad sigh disapprovingly over your every action would grow very irritating very fast.

“Is that why you are here? I would not have thought the Children of the Light would be interested in helping Elayne.”

“You would be correct in that,” he allowed with a weary sigh. “I am not here on any order save that of my own conscious.”

“I see.” Such a privileged birth had he. The looks, the height, the innate skill. And the child of two royal Houses besides. The world should have been his for the asking. First Prince of the Sword of Andor certainly and almost assuredly wed off to a queen as well. Yet capricious fate had led to both of his parents’ Houses losing their thrones while Galadedrid was still barely more than an infant. First his mother had disappeared, then his father had suffered a fatal accident, leaving him in the charge of the woman who claimed what would have been his mother’s throne. And now here he was, a rogue Whitecloak, all alone, hunting what he believed to be a false Dragon.

Despite herself, Moiraine felt sorry for him. She hoped he wouldn’t force her to do anything she’d regret.

“Elayne is not the only person you seem to have parted company with,” Galad continued. “Nynaeve, I assume, went back to Tar Valon as well. And there was a young man with you. Red hair. Tall. Where is he now?”

The pleasant mask she’d carved her face into did not crack. She’d already been near certain she knew why he’d tracked them down, and his interest in Rand confirmed it.  _ Careful now _ . “He is no longer with us.”

“If you mean that he is dead, would you mind saying so directly?”

Still the mask did not slip, though inside she seethed at his temerity. He knew enough about the Three Oaths to try to use them against her, but she’d been schooled in how to deal with such things while she was still an Accepted. “He was not dead when I saw him last, though he soon will be.” The taint would see to that, even if the Prophecies did not. “Once freed of their ... affliction, such men do not survive for long. The false Dragon of Falme will offer no threat to the world, now that he cannot channel.” Not that he’d ever been able to channel, since there was no false Dragon at Falme.

Just as she’d hid her other emotions, Moiraine gave no sign of her relief when Galad nodded his acceptance of her misdirection. “Then you have fulfilled not one but two of my duties, aunt. You have my thanks. Only one remains. Where is the former false Dragon now? He still must answer for his crimes.”

Moiraine raised her brows. “Is that necessary? As I said, he is not long for this world.”

“Even so, justice must be done,” Galad said grimly. She’d heard tales of queens of old hanging the corpses of defeated rebel soldiers, sometimes thousands of them at a time, and never mind the wasted time and effort it took to drag their rotting corpses to the scaffolds. Hanging was, after all, the ordained punishment for rebellion. If Galad had heard the same tales, she suspected he’d approved of the queens’ judgments rather more than Moiraine had.

She had already considered the places that a Gentled Rand might conceivably go, and compared those places to those that she would like to safely steer Galad towards. Tar Valon and Amadicia were obviously not options. It had to be far away from Tear. The Theren and Andor presented too many problems. So that left ... “The Borderlands. He visited them before and spoke of his admiration for the people there. He also spoke of wanting to die fighting the Shadow. Saldaea lies directly north of here. Given how single minded he is, I expect he will take the most direct route possible to his destination.”

“There is talk of another false Dragon in Saldaea as well,” Galad said, frowning thoughtfully. “The chaos I saw in Valreis was bad enough, and that just from the rumours of his coming. What damage might two of them together do?”

Moiraine had received word from her eyes and ears that the false Dragon in question had been defeated and captured, but if Galad did not know that and wished to take his existence as extra motivation she was not going to gainsay him. Perhaps one of those famously aggressive Saldaean farmgirls would take a shine to him and keep him locked up in her barn. It would likely do him good. It would keep him out of her way and prevent him from striking at Rand. And it would spare her the need to have him killed.

“It is a frightening thought,” she said calmly.

“But you will let him go there anyway?” Again that hint of censure. He thought entirely overmuch of himself, did Galad.

“As I said. He is not the threat you might have expected him to be. I see no reason to pursue the matter further but I will not stop you if you see it otherwise.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Moiraine shrugged as though it were of no account, and rose from her seat. “Be that as it may, nephew, you should not be stalking Aes Sedai in the manner you were earlier. Not all of them are relatives of yours, or inclined to be as understanding as I. It would be wise of you to keep a greater distance from myself and my Sisters in future, given your current affiliations.”

“What is safe is rarely what is right,” Galad said.

She sniffed by way of goodbye, though his parting statement was not so alien as she would have liked. Nothing of what she’d done in the past twenty years had been safe. The Light send that it would be proved, in the end, to have been right.

The sun was sinking beneath the horizon when she stepped out of the tavern with Lan at her side. There were few people about, and those that still walked the streets kept a wary distance from them. She decided she wouldn’t bother trying to sneak back into the inn. Let Tam and Alanna wonder at where she had been. They were no longer capable of interfering.

They had crossed the street and were not far from the inn—which was called The White Sheets, she noted in passing—when Lan spoke. “So you have dealt with your troublesome relative. Though it meant delaying our journey. Perhaps now you will tell me what you know about Isam.” His face and voice revealed no anger, but she could feel it through the bond they shared.

_ Careful now. Very careful _ . In all the time she’d known him, she’d had little to no reason to doubt Lan’s dedication to their cause. Encountering his long lost cousin, the Darkfriend assassin Isam Chiendelna, offered an even greater threat to their partnership than his feelings for Nynaeve had _ . I can’t let him go haring off to try and hunt down his cousin. I need him here _ .

“I know little more than you do. He is a Darkfriend of enough standing to command an army of Trollocs.”

“You were not surprised to hear them shout his name at Emond’s Field,” Lan accused.

The Warder bond could be inconvenient sometimes. She could, through an effort of concentration, disable the part that allowed him to know what she felt, but it was an effort Aes Sedai rarely made. If she’d known that Isam was in command of the Trollocs attacking the Theren, she would have made that effort. As she hadn’t ... “I had heard the name mentioned as someone of note in Darkfriend circles once before. There was no way of telling if it was Breyan’s son—no-one’s name is truly unique, after all—but I must admit to having wondered. Lacking evidence one way or another, there seemed little point to raising the topic.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be now?”

“None. Though given what you told me of he and Luc’s tendencies to appear and reappear at will, I don’t see that it would matter if I had. Finding them would seem to be impossible. We will just have to be ready, if and when they find us. Or Rand.”

Lan grunted but spoke no words, so she asked him directly. “Do you think Isam’s survival a greater threat to the world than the possibility of the Dragon Reborn dying before he can fulfil his destiny? I would not expect a man of your years to be so lost to emotion.”

“I haven’t forgotten our war, Moiraine,” he said roughly. “My ancestors have fought it for as long as history records. As did Isam’s.”

“Unlike him, you are a credit to them, Dai Shan. I do not think that will ever change.”

That mollified him somewhat. Lan affected humility but his humility was the result of a fierce pride in the honour of his ancestors, and a desire to end the royal Malkieri line in a way that befit them. He had always held fast to the oaths he had sworn her, setting aside any outward displays of pride in favour of his own internal, Malkieri honour. That was why she was so concerned about Isam’s reappearance. His allegiance to the Shadow sullied that honour. To Lan’s mind that demanded retribution.

But retribution would have to wait. “We have many leagues to Tear yet,” Lan said. “If we are going to catch up to the boy before he shows up alone at the front gate of the Stone and challenges the Defenders, we must move swiftly.”

That satisfied her. “Yes. This captain you spoke to, could he be made to sail in the dark?”

“I asked. He claims to have done so before and demands double his usual asking price.”

The others would wonder at her changing her mind yet again, but let them wonder. With Galad safely manoeuvred away from Rand, there was no more need for her to linger in Whitebridge. “I doubt we will need to pay his price. I do not mean to trust to nature to speed us downriver, and few men dare demand money of an Aes Sedai once they have seen her in action. Make the arrangements, Lan, I will roust our charges.”

The remains of a hearty meal yet remained on the long table that Mistress Floyd showed Moiraine to. Most of her charges were still awake. She’d have to send some to drag the others out of their beds, and likely pay the innkeeper for them, despite the lack of use. Loial and Ragan sat together, quietly lamenting the fallen, while Tam, Uno and Aca had their heads together. Whatever they were discussing, they went silent when Moiraine entered the room.

The girls were not being so suspiciously quiet. Imoen and Saeri had fallen asleep at the table, slumped over with their shoulders against each other and their heads lolling. The other girls seemed to find this cause for much giggling, even the Aiel Maiden Renay.

“Is there any charcoal?” Merile asked. “We could give them little moustaches.”

Raine seemed to find that idea hilarious, and cackled with laughter. Moiraine shook her head. Even when she’d been their age, she had not been so young, no matter what her instructors had claimed about the pranks she and Siuan had pulled.

“Don’t be mean,” Luci said, her voice, as usual, barely audible. She didn’t jump to her friends’ defence though, just hovered around dry washing her hands.

“It’s alright, Luci, no-one means them harm. It’s just a bit of fun,” Areku assured her. It took more than a smile to make the female soldier look feminine, in Moiraine’s estimation. That partially shaved head just did not look right on a woman. Every time she saw it, she could not help but imagine what she herself with look like with her scalp shaved in the fashion of soldiers from her homeland. It was not a flattering mental image.

“I could carry them up to their rooms if you like,” said Izana.

“Is that thought proper in the wetlands?” Renay asked. Strictly speaking, it was not. But Moiraine doubted Izana had any ill intentions. He was a conscientious boy. “I do not mind doing it myself,” the Aiel continued. “They look adorable while they are sleeping.”

“You can carry them to the docks then,” Moiraine cut in, drawing all eyes to her. “We are leaving.”

“What happened to change your mind?” Tam asked. He was as unfazed by the second abrupt change of plans as he had been by the first.

“If you wish to stay here and visit the tavern, Master al’Thor, I shall not stop you. It was your idea to invite yourself along on this journey, after all. But I am leaving now.”

Tam got to his feet with a sigh. “It’s a good thing we didn’t unpack yet. This should be quick.”

It was indeed quick. But that was not to say it was without incident. Uno was still cursing as he strode up the gangplank to the  _ Cloth of Gold _ . He called into question the character, cleanliness and parentage of Bartu, Nengar and Masema, all three. For once, Moiraine had no desire to stem the flow of profanities from the one-eyed old soldier. She didn’t like surprises even at the best of times, and these were certainly not those. But they had no time to go looking, so she left the questions posed unanswered.

Of all the Shienarans, Masema was the last she would have expected to desert.


	22. A Friendly Herbalist

CHAPTER 19: A Friendly Herbalist

Rand huddled under the trees in the night, watching the heavy-shouldered black dog come nearer his hiding place. His side ached, the wound Moiraine could not quite Heal, but he ignored it. The moon gave barely enough light for him to make out the dog, waist-high, with its thick neck and massive head, and its teeth that seemed to shine like wet silver in the night. It sniffed the air and trotted toward him.

_ Closer _ , he thought.  _ Come closer. No warning for your master this time. Closer. That’s it _ . The dog was only ten paces away, now, a deep growl rumbling in its chest as it suddenly bounded forward. Straight at Rand.

The Power filled him. Something leaped from his outstretched hands; though it was of his making, he was not sure what it would be. A bar of white light, solid as steel. Liquid fire. For an instant, in the middle of that something, the dog seemed to become transparent, and then it was gone.

The white light faded except for the afterimage burned across Rand’s vision. He sagged against the nearest tree trunk, the bark rough on his face. Relief and silent laughter shook him _ . It worked. Light save me, it worked this time _ . It had not before. There had been other dogs this night. The only thing that seemed to stop them for good was the white fire that he’d once seen Moiraine use, but using it himself, remembering what it was, that had proven difficult.

The One Power pulsed in him, and his stomach twisted with the Dark One’s taint on  _ saidin _ , wanted to empty itself. Sweat beaded on his face despite the cold night wind, and his mouth tasted full of sickness. He wanted to lie down and die. He wanted Nynaeve to give him some of her medicines, or Moiraine to Heal him, or ... Something, anything, to stop the sick feeling that was suffocating him.

But  _ saidin _ flooded him with life, too, life and energy and awareness larded through the illness. Life without  _ saidin _ was a pale copy. Anything else was a wan imitation.

_ But they can find me if I hold on. Track me, find me. I have to reach Tear. I’ll find out there. If I am the Dragon, there’ll be an end to it. And if I am not ... If it’s all a lie, there will be an end to that, too. An end _ .

Reluctantly, with infinite slowness, he severed contact with  _ saidin _ , gave up its embrace as if giving up life’s breath. The night seemed drab. The shadows lost their infinite sharp shadings and washed together.

In the distance, to the east, a dog howled, a shivering cry in the silent night.

Rand’s head came up. He peered in that direction as though he could see the dog if he tried hard enough.

A second dog answered the first, then another, and two more together, all spread out somewhere east of him.

“Hunt me,” Rand snarled. “Hunt me if you will. I can hunt, too. I’m no easy meat. No more!”

Pushing himself away from the tree, he waded a shallow, icy stream, then settled into a steady trot westward. Cold water filled his boots, that irritating burning sensation he’d been feeling in his crotch since fleeing Godan tried to demand he scratch himself, and his side hurt, but he ignored all of that. The night was quiet again behind him, but he ignored that, too.

They would be back. He’d deal with them then. Unless ... he had no idea how smart these Darkhounds were. If they realised he’d puzzled out Moiraine’s Balefire they might scatter or flee. And if they hadn’t realised it yet, then he’d be better off maximising the advantage surprise gave him, and taking them all out at once.

That was how Moiraine had done it. She’d set up in the middle of a nice open space and let the pack come to her. There wasn’t much space to be seen though. He’d left the road early in his trek westward, preferring to avoid the traffic and towns. Through the woods he’d ventured, scavenging what he needed once Avaleen’s supplies ran out, avoiding human contact as much as he could. None of that had stopped the Darkhounds from finding him.

He ducked under a low tree branch and stepped out into a small field. It wasn’t as good a site as he’d have liked, but he had just about decided that it would do when he noticed how evenly spaced the plants in it were. They had not the wildness of nature, and when he trotted over to investigate further, his suspicions were confirmed. At the bottom of a small slope at the edge of the field there was a rough cottage, its thatch roof overgrown with weeds. The fenced gardens before and beside the cottage looked to be better tended that the building itself was.

_ Burn it all! What are they doing, living out here?  _ He grimaced in response to his own thought. Whoever they were and whatever their reasons for living out in the woods like this, they certainly wouldn’t be expecting a pack of Darkhounds to chase a male channeler through their backyard. He briefly considered, and quickly dismissed, the idea of running off past the cottage. His tracks and his scent were all over this place now. The Darkhounds would come here. And whoever was inside would die. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

He didn’t need the moonlight to guide his way now. There was light spilling faintly from the windows of the cottage. A single bound was enough to clear the slope, and a few more steps enough to bring him before the unpainted wooden door. He put his hand on the door, meaning to knock, but it swung open at his touch.

There was only one room inside, and what light there was came from the fire burning under a stone chimney. The floor was covered in loose rushes rather than carpet, or even planks, and the furnishing consisted of little more than a narrow bed, a battered chest of drawers, and a long table. That was not to say the place was neglected or empty though, not exactly. Myriad herbs hung from strings attached to the rafters, while plants and flowers and fungi off all different kinds were arrayed upon the table. It was more than even Nynaeve had kept in her house back in Emond’s Field.

Seeing all that, it was no surprise that the occupant was a woman. All Wisdoms were. She stood by the table with her back to the door, grinding away at something with a mortar and pestle. Of unremarkable height, with the same colour hair he’d seen on every woman in the Theren, she nevertheless made his jaw drop, for she was wearing the same kind of loose breeches he’d seen the dockworkers wearing back in Godan. In her case, bent over the table the way she was, they clung to the curves of what was a very large and pretty bottom.

_ If a sight like that greeted me in every business, I’d go shopping a lot more often _ .

She must have heard the door opening, or felt the draft from outside, for she spun around to face him. Grey eyes in a broad, pale face stared back at him warily.

Rand raised his empty hands and spoke quickly. “I mean you no harm. I was just passing through and saw the light from your window. The door was open.”

Her eyes flickered over him, weighing and measuring. She didn’t like what she saw. “Just passing through. Out here? Look, kid. Whatever you did, I don’t care. Just don’t bring the guards to my door. Run on and I won’t tell them I saw you.”

“I’m not running from the guards,” he said, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “There are some wild animals in the woods. Scary-looking ones, and coming this way. I thought I should warn you. You should—”

He cut himself off, needing no more than the narrowing of her eyes to know the answer to that unspoken suggestion. And why not? A woman would have to be crazy to run off into the night with some stranger who burst into her house yammering about scary animals.

“Should stay indoors,” he finished weakly.  _ Burn me. I’ll have to stop them here _ .

“I wasn’t planning to do anything else,” she said. She was holding the heavy stone mortar in both hands. He suspected she was thinking of using it on him if he took so much as a step closer to her.

“So you’re a Wisdom then? That’s an honoured profession.”

“A what?”

He gestured vaguely at the gathered herbs. “A healer and such. Someone who uses herbs and potions to help people with their ills. We call them Wisdoms, where I come from.”

She smiled bitterly. “Some call them Wise Women here, though no-one has ever called  _ me _ that. I’m Mother Tomira. Far from wise and certainly no mother. Why are you here? I don’t get many visitors even in the daylight, and certainly not at this hour.”

He wondered briefly why she was out here then. Most Wisdoms kept close to the people they tended. There was no time for prying though, and he doubted this Tomira would have answered him anyway. The Darkhounds could arrive at any moment, and he needed her to be somewhere out of the way when they did.

A possibly solution occurred to him then, but it was an embarrassing one and he found himself reluctant to take it.  _ More embarrassing that what you did on the  _ Liberty _ ? Say it, you worthless woolhead! _

“Actually ... there is something I could use a Wisdom’s, or a Wise Woman’s, help with. You see, I met this woman a while back and ever since I’ve been feeling a bit ... poorly.”

Tomira watched him writhe in embarrassment, and shook her head. “Itching or burning? And where exactly.”

“Exactly?”

“Exactly.”

He took a deep breath. “Itching. At the tip of my, ah, my ... you know.” His face felt very hot.

“I should make you say it. Probably do you good in the long run,” Tomira muttered. She backed away from him, still wary, but her attention was on her array of herbs now. “I can make you something to help with that. Can you pay?”

Avaleen had left some coins among the going away gift she’d given him. Not many, but he had to hope they’d be enough for this. “Yes. I can pay.” He could hear a faint howling in the distance. “While you do that, I should go and scare off those animals. It would be best if you locked the door and stayed inside until I come back.”

Those clear eyes studied him curiously as he slipped back out into the night and pulled the door closed behind him.

Well. If he’d ever have had a chance of getting a closer look at that spectacular bottom of hers, it was a chance long gone after that confession. It was probably for the best, but he couldn’t help but feel that a bottom like that being left unembraced was a bit of a tragedy.

Rand scrambled back up the slope behind her house, then stood to survey the area. He didn’t like how much of his vision the house blocked from here. He could see most of what lay to his left and right but if any Darkhounds approached from directly behind, he’d be blindsided. Even so, he didn’t dare move too far away from Tomira. She wouldn’t last long against one of those things. At least the field he’d crossed was nice and flat. That was good. If they all came from that direction, it would be easy.

His stomach roiled yet again when he reached out to seize  _ saidin _ and fill himself with its terrible, sullied glory. He wished Tomira had some herbs that could banish that sensation, but knew that it was not any illness in his body that was causing it. It was pointless to ask. Dangerous, in fact. With his vision enhanced by  _ saidin _ and the weaves that he now knew would form Balefire ready to be spun, Rand waited for the Shadow’s hunters to find him.

When they came, they came slowly. Great dark shapes, too muscular to be horses, too tall to be dogs, prowled out of the far woods and sniffed the air. Rand heard them growling, even from so far away. They advanced cautiously, and he realised then that the death of their packmate had been noted. He looked about him, eyeing the darkness beyond Tomira’s hut suspiciously. Wary dogs were unlikely to attack from the front. Or not only from the front anyway.

It was unnerving. He couldn’t afford to focus his attention on the advancing Darkhounds, but each time he looked back at them from having checked for ambushers, they seemed to leap closer, the distance between him and them shrinking unnaturally fast. He couldn’t help but think that the next time he looked back he would find all six of them mid-pouncing, their silvery teeth reaching for his throat.

Sure enough, when the Darkhounds were no more than thirty strides from his position, there came a growling from behind, to his left and right.  _ So much for getting them all at once _ . Rand hunched over, the killer weave ready to fire. He couldn’t see the Darkhounds to his sides, no matter how intently he peered into the night.

When he looked back at the main pack, it was almost upon him.

So silently did those hulking beasts run that Rand could clearly hear his own gasp of breath as he raised his hands before him, palms up. A loud and angry bark came from his right, sounding far too close, before he could finish forming the weave. Desperation brought his thoughts into sharper focus. He spun Balefire, not once but twice. The first bar of searing light shot forth from his left hand and swept across the charging pack, reducing them to nothingness. The second he fired from his right hand as, stretching painfully, he aimed his Balefire at the beast trying to jump him from behind. That Darkhound’s black coat briefly turned as white as snow, its teeth as black as night, then it, too, evaporated like morning mist.

Rand heaved a sigh of relief. And nearly died for it.

The one that came at him from the left did so in total silence. He couldn’t say what warned him. Instinct.  _ Ta’veren _ luck. The channeler’s aptitude for sensing Shadowspawn subconsciously warning him that there were still more nearby. He just felt a sudden terror, a need to throw himself to the ground and be small. He did as his instincts commanded, and saw a black shape fly over him, momentarily blocking out the stars above.

The Darkhound landed with a thump not far from where Rand lay. He rolled away from it as he wove Balefire again. It spun around, slaver dripping from jaws that were opened wide enough to encompass Rand’s entire head, and lunged for him. It was less than an arm’s length away when the white bar lanced out to pierce it and erase it from existence.

Rand got to his feet shakily. He fancied he could still feel its hot breath on his skin.  _ That was far closer than I had planned for it to be _ .

A loud crash from behind, followed by a woman’s scream, brought his attack of nerves to an abrupt end.  _ That damned blindspot! _ Sprinting for the house, Rand leapt across the gap between ridge and roof. As he rolled across the thatch, he saw a Darkhound’s muscular rump. The rest of the thing was already inside Tomira’s house. Knowing he couldn’t afford to hesitate, or to miss, Rand kicked off the edge of the roof, spun in midair and pointed an outstretched palm at the creature’s back. Balefire shot forth one last time, lighting up the night around him and striking the Darkhound right in its spine. It barely had enough time to yelp in pain before its colours reversed and it faded away under the terrible light of Rand’s weave.

He landed awkwardly and sprawled on his back atop one of the healer’s gardens, but that was alright. Unlike people, plants could be replanted. At least he’d gotten there in time.  _ I think I have a new favourite weave. This Balefire is something else! _

After a while, Tomira poked her head around the doorway to look outside and saw him lying there. “Did you ...? What kind of dog was that? It was huge!”

His first instinct was to lie to her. It was rarely wise to connect yourself to the Shadow, even if you were only claiming to be opposed to it. People tended to suspect the worst. Even so, Rand decided on impulse to be honest. “That was a Darkhound. They’re a kind of Shadowspawn. You don’t usually see them this far south of the Borderlands.”

Tomira blinked at him in silence for a long minute. Then she shrugged tiredly. “Just what I needed. Shadowspawn.” She sighed then, and wandered back into her cabin.

Rand picked himself up and dusted off his borrowed clothes. That hadn’t been as dramatic a reaction as he’d been expecting.

When he looked inside he found her working a stopper onto a clay jar, heedless of the splintered door that lay atop her rushes. He waited for her to ask how he knew what a Darkhound was, and how he’d managed to kill one, but she did not, as it turned out, bother to ask those questions.

“Smear this on yourself, and leave it there. Replenish it every two hours or so. It will take a while, but keep doing it until the itching stops, and then do it some more.” Blank-faced, she handed him the jar. Rand slipped it into one pocket of his grey, Sea Folk coat and reached for his coins, but she shook her head. “No need to pay me. Consider it a gift. Just remember me, okay? Remember I gave you a gift.”

And there it was. Fear. Well hidden, but still there, lurking in her eyes. She knew.

He nodded solemnly. “I will remember. Thank you.”

“Whatever you’re running from ... or to, I don’t care. Just don’t bring any more grief to my door. Please.”

Rand would have liked to have made her a promise then. But he knew enough about the Prophecies of the Dragon to doubt it was a promise he could keep.

“I’ll try,” he said instead.

He left her there, and turned his feet once more towards Tear.


	23. Following the Craft

CHAPTER 20: Following the Craft

As the  _ Darter _ wallowed toward the docks of Tear, on the east bank of the River Arindrelle, Dani did not see anything of the oncoming city. Slumped head down at the rail, she stared down at the waters of the Arindrelle rolling past the ship’s fat hull, and the frontmost sweep on her side as it swung into her vision and back again, cutting white furrows in the river. It made her queasy, but she knew raising her head would only make the sickness worse. Looking at the shore would only make the slow, corkscrew motion of the  _ Darter _ more apparent.

The vessel had moved in that twisting roll ever since Whitebridge. She found herself wishing the  _ Darter _ had sunk months ago. She wished they had made the captain put in at Jehannah so they could find another ship. She wished they had never traded their horses for a ship. She wished a great many things, most of them just to take her mind off where she was. Dani had never been seasick before, though she was no stranger to travelling on water. But despite its optimistic name, the  _ Darter _ was a prodigiously terrible ship.

The twisting was less now, under sweeps, than it had been under sail, but it had gone on too many days now for the change to make much difference to her. Her stomach seemed to be sloshing about inside her like milk in a stone jug. She gulped and tried to forget that image.

They had not done much in the way of planning on the  _ Darter, _ for she was far from the only one affected by the ship’s drunken stagger. Wynifred, Asseil and Shimoku were faring little better than she was, while Nynaeve could seldom go ten minutes without vomiting. Seeing that always made Emara lose whatever food she had managed to get down, which in turn made Nynaeve spew all the stronger. They’d long since taken to keeping the two of them as far away from each other as possible. The increasing warmth as they went further downriver did not help. Nynaeve was below now, no doubt with Elayne holding a basin for her again.

With Asseil being sick so often, they’d relaxed their guard on her. Keestis was usually with her, doing for her what Elayne was doing for Nynaeve. Meeting her family again after so many years seemed to have awoken a protective side of her. Dani hoped that wouldn’t be a problem, now that they’d arrived in Tear.

Ilyena, who stood beside her at the rail, rubbed Dani’s back as though she was an infant in need of burping. She meant well, but Dani was in no mood to be nice.

“The last thing I need is help getting something up, Ilyena.”

“If you were a man I’d ask you to explain why this journey has been so boring then,” said she, whose stomach was apparently made of lead.

“Go fuck yourself,” Dani said half-heartedly.

“Already have, love, already have,” Ilyena sighed. Despite the roiling of her guts, Dani managed a weak laugh.

“Mistress Roslin? Mistress Nicol?”

It took her a moment to recognize the names they had chosen to give Captain Canin, and the captain’s voice. She raised her head slowly and fixed her eyes on his round face.

“We are docking, Mistress Roslin. You’ve kept saying how eager you were to be ashore. Well, we’re there.” His voice did not hide his eagerness to be rid of his passengers, most of whom did little more than sick up, as he called it, and moan all night.

Barefoot, shirtless sailors were tossing lines to men on the stone dock that thrust out into the river; the dockmen seemed to be wearing long leather vests in place of shirts. The sweeps had already been drawn in, except for a pair fending the ship off from coming against the dock too hard. The flat stones of the dock were wet; the air had a feel of rain not long gone, and that was a little soothing. The twisting motion had ceased some time since, she realized, but her stomach remembered. The sun was falling toward the west. She tried not to think of supper.

“At last. You should use your profits from this journey to retrofit this ship, man. A drunk, one-legged grandmother would have better balance.”

“I do the best I can,” he said stiffly. Dani found herself wishing another wish—that they’d found a female captain instead. Trade was a woman’s domain, as the Council of Merchants in her native Arad Doman had long since made plain. Surely a woman would have had a better ship.

“I will tell Mistress Maryim and Mistress Caryla that we’re here,” Ilyena said. That was Nynaeve—Maryim—and Elayne—Caryla. They’d all chosen aliases, for fear the Black Ajah would have people asking after them. Keeping track of fifteen made up names wasn’t easy for anyone, but it was harder for some. Nynaeve had had to order Calindin to avoid speaking at all when there were outsiders around.

“I have sent a man to tell them, Mistress Nicol,” Canin said. “And others to tell the rest of your companions.”

Nynaeve and Elayne appeared at the ladder from the cabins, laden with their bundles and saddlebags, and Elayne almost as laden with Nynaeve. When Nynaeve saw them watching, she pushed herself away from the Daughter-Heir and walked unaided the rest of the way to where men were setting a narrow gangplank to the dock.

Mair reached the deck not long after, laden with three times the bags she should be. She strode over to Dani and Ilyena, who took their own burdens from her gratefully.

“Hopefully the moaning is over now,” said Mair.

“There have been times I’ve wished our prey would come looking for us,” Ilyena said disgustedly. “Anything would have been better than listening to the constant vomiting.”

“You had it easy,” Mair snorted. “Keestis woke up in the middle of last night in desperate need of a basin, and thought she’d found one. Turned out it was Mayam’s pack.”

Ilyena grinned wickedly. “Light! What did Mayam say?”

“It was hard to tell. Her voice went so high pitched that I couldn’t recognise one word in five.”

The two of them cackled with laughter, while Dani shook her head in exasperation. “Well I’m glad you two found something to amuse yourselves with on the journey. It sounds like you’ve been having a lot more fun than me.”

“I rubbed your back, didn’t I? What more do you want?”

Ignoring her pillow-friend’s teasing, Dani made her way to the gangplank, where their gathered companions were making their oft-unsteady way to shore.

For a moment after her feet were on the dock, all she felt was relief. This would not pitch and roll. Then she began to look at this city whose reaching had caused them such pains.

Stone warehouses backed the long docks themselves, and there seemed to be a great many ships, large and small, alongside the docks or anchored in the river. Tear had been built on flat land, with barely a bump. Down muddy dirt streets between the warehouses, she could see houses and inns and taverns of wood and stone. Their roofs of slate or tile had oddly sharp corners, and some rose to a point. Beyond these, she could make out a high wall of dark grey stone, and behind it the tops of towers with balconies high around them and white-domed palaces. The domes had a squared shape to them, and the tower tops looked pointed, like some of the roofs outside the wall. All in all, Tear was bigger than Bandar Eban but not as big as Tar Valon, and if not so beautiful as either, it was still one of the great cities. Yet she found it hard to look at anything but the Stone of Tear.

She had heard of it in stories, heard that it was the greatest fortress in the world and the oldest, the first built after the Breaking of the World, yet nothing had prepared her for this sight. At first she thought it was a huge, grey stone hill or a small, barren mountain covering hundreds of hides, its length stretching from the Arindrelle east through the wall and into the city. Even after she saw the huge banner flapping from its greatest height—three white crescent moons slanting across a field half red, half gold; a banner waving at least three hundred feet above the river, yet large enough to be clearly seen at that height—even after she made out battlements and towers, it was difficult to believe the Stone of Tear had been built rather than carved out of a mountain already there.

“Made with the Power,” Elayne murmured. She was staring at the Stone, too. “Flows of Earth woven to draw stone from the ground, Air to bring it from every corner of the world, and Earth and Fire to make it all in one piece, without seam or joint or mortar. Atuan Sedai says the Tower could not do it, today. Strange, given how the High Nobles feel concerning the Power now.”

“I think,” Nynaeve said softly, eyeing the dockmen moving around them, “that given that very thing, we should not mention certain other things aloud.” Elayne appeared torn between indignation— she had spoken very softly—and agreement.

A woman who wore the ring, or was even associated with Tar Valon, would be watched here. The barefoot, leather-vested dockmen were not paying them any mind as they hurried about, carrying bales or crates on their backs as often as on barrows. A strong odour of fish hung in the air; the next three docks had dozens of small fishing boats clustered around them. Shirtless men and barefoot women were hoisting baskets of fish out of the boats, mounds of silver and bronze and green, and colours she had never suspected fish might be, such as bright red, and deep blue, and brilliant yellow, some with stripes or splotches of white and other colours.

“Just like home,” Mayam sighed. She was from Godan originally, the second largest city in Tear after this, the capital from which the nation took its name. She didn’t look particularly glad to be back on home soil, especially not such well-churned soil as awaited them when they left the docks. “Try not to fall on your butts, ladies. There’s little enough dignity left in this group.”

A red-faced Keestis hung her head, while Ilyena and Mair smirked to each other behind her back. Deciding that someone needed to set an example, Dani went and took the woman by the arm. “That muck looks slippery. I’ll steady you if you do the same for me.”

“Thanks, Dani,” Keestis said glumly.

Nynaeve sniffed. “You’d think you sheltered princesses had never seen a little muck before.” She adjusted her pack and took a firm hold of her braid before stalking off with her head held high. She made it only five paces before she slipped, her legs stretching wide as she windmilled her arms in a desperate attempt to keep her balance. Ilyena went up on her toes in anticipation, and Mair and Pedra looked nearly as eager to see the imminent pratfall, but Nynaeve dashed their hopes by regaining her balance before the muck could claim her. Wide-eyed, she glared back at them as though daring anyone to comment, before making her—now much more careful—way into the city.

Calindin and Theodrin had the Asseil responsibility this time. Dani checked to make sure they were keeping an eye on their uncertain ally, before stepping off after Nynaeve with Keestis holding fast to her arm. There were other near misses before they found something resembling dry ground but no-one took a dirt bath, to Ilyena’s visible disappointment.

When the streets grew suitably quiet, Nynaeve spoke up. “We need to locate Liandrin and the others without them learning we are asking after them. They surely know we are coming—that someone is, at least—but I would like them not to know we are here until it is too late for them.” She drew a deep breath. “I confess I have not thought of any way to do this. Yet. Do any of you have any suggestions?”

“A thief-taker,” Elayne said without hesitation.

Nynaeve frowned at her. “You mean like Hurin? He served Lord Agelmar. Wouldn’t any thief-taker here serve the High Nobles?”

Elayne nodded. “Yes, they would. But thief-takers are not like the Queen’s Guards, or the Tairen Defenders of the Stone. The serve the ruler, but people who have been robbed sometimes pay them to retrieve what was stolen. And they also sometimes take money to find people. At least, they do in Caemlyn. I cannot think it is different here in Tear.”

“Then we take rooms at an inn,” Pedra said, “and ask the innkeeper to find us a thief-taker.”

“Not an inn,” Nynaeve insisted. After a moment she moderated her tone a little. “Liandrin, at least, knows us, and we have to assume the others do, too. They will surely be watching the inns for whoever followed the trail they sprinkled behind them. I mean to spring their trap in their faces, but not with us inside. We’ll not stay at an inn.”

Pinch-mouthed Pedra refused to give her the satisfaction of asking. Like Ilyena and Mair, she’d been less than impressed with Nynaeve’s performance on the ship. Unlike them, she hadn’t seen the funny side of it all. It had simply lowered her opinion of the woman.

“Where then?” Elayne’s brow furrowed. “If I made myself known—and could make anyone believe it, in these clothes and with no escort—we would be welcomed by most of the noble Houses, and very likely in the Stone itself—there are good relations between Caemlyn and Tear—but there would be no keeping it quiet. The entire city would know before nightfall. I cannot think of anywhere else except an inn, Nynaeve. Unless you mean to go out to a farm in the country, but we will never find them from the country.”

Nynaeve glanced at Pedra. “I will know when I see it. Let me look.”

Elayne’s frown swept from Nynaeve to Pedra and back again. “ ‘Do not cut off your ears because you do not like your earrings,’ ” she muttered.

There were not a great many people out, not compared to the streets of Tar Valon. Perhaps the thick mud in the street discouraged them. Carts and wagons lurched past, most pulled by oxen with wide horns, the carter or wagoneer walking alongside with a long goad of some pale, ridged wood. No carriages or sedan chairs used these streets. The odour of fish hung in the air here, too, and no few of the men who hurried past carried huge baskets full of fish on their backs. The shops did not look prosperous; none displayed wares outside, and Dani seldom saw anyone go in. The shops had signs—the tailor’s needle and bolt of cloth, the cutler’s knife and scissors, the weaver’s loom, and the like—but the paint on most of them was peeling. The few inns had signs in as bad a state, and looked no busier. The small houses crowded between inns and shops often had tiles or slates missing from their roofs. This part of Tear, at least, was poor. And from what she saw on the faces, few of the people here cared to try any longer. They were moving, working, but most of them had given up. Few as much as glanced at the pack of foreign women as they passed.

The men wore baggy breeches, usually tied at the ankle. Only a handful wore coats, long, dark garments that fit arms and chest tightly, then became looser below the waist. There were more men in low shoes than in boots, but most went barefoot in the mud. A good many wore no coat or shirt at all, and had their breeches held up by a broad sash, sometimes coloured and often dirty. Some had wide, conical straw hats on their heads, and a few, cloth caps that sagged down one side of the face. The women’s dresses had high necks, right up to their chins, and hems that stopped at the ankle. Many had short aprons in pale colours, sometimes two or three, each smaller than the one beneath it, and most wore the same straw hats as the men, but dyed to complement the aprons.

It was on a woman that she first saw how those who wore shoes dealt with the mud. The woman had small wooden platforms tied to the soles of her shoes, lifting them up out of the mud; she walked along as if her feet were planted firmly on the ground. Dani saw others wearing the platforms after that, men as well as women. Some of the women went barefoot, but not as many as the men.

She was wondering which shop might sell those platforms, when Nynaeve suddenly turned down an alleyway between a long, narrow two-story house and a stone-walled potter’s shop. Dani exchanged glances with Keestis, who shrugged, and then they followed.

The alley suddenly let into a small yard behind the house, fenced in by the buildings around it. A small fig tree and large vegetable patch took up most of the yard, while a line of stones had been laid to make a path to the back door. Nynaeve strode to the door and knocked.

“What is it?” Pedra demanded. “Why are we stopping here?”

“Did you not see the herbs in the front windows?” Nynaeve knocked again.

“Herbs?” Elayne said.

Dani nodded in understanding. “Nynaeve has found herself a Medicine Woman, or whatever they call her here.”

A woman opened the door just enough to look out suspiciously. At first Dani thought she was stout, but then the woman opened the door the rest of the way. She was certainly well padded, but the way she moved spoke of muscle underneath.

“How can I help you?” the woman said. Her grey hair was arranged in thick curls that hung down the sides of her head, and her three aprons were in shades of green, each slightly darker than the one below, but even the topmost pale. “Which one of you needs me?”

“I do,” Nynaeve said. “I need something for a queasy stomach. And perhaps some of my companions do, too. That is, if we’ve come to the right place?”

“You’re not Tairen,” the woman said. “I should have known that by your clothes, before you spoke. I’m called Mother Guenna. I am called a Wise Woman, too, but I’m old enough not to trust that to caulk a seam. You come, and I will give you something for your stomach.”

It was a neat kitchen to which she led them, though not large, with copper pots hanging on the wall, and dried herbs and sausages from the ceiling. Several tall cupboards of pale wood had doors carved with some sort of tall grass. The table had been scrubbed almost white, and the backs of the chairs were carved with flowers. A pot of fishy-smelling soup was simmering atop the stone stove, and a kettle with a spout, just beginning to steam. There was no fire on the stone hearth, for which Dani was grateful; the stove added enough to the heat, though Mother Guenna seemed not to notice it at all. Dishes lined the mantel, and more were stacked neatly on shelves to either side. What little of the floor as could be seen, with so many woman crammed into such a small space, looked as if it had just been swept.

Mother Guenna closed the door after them, and as she was crossing the kitchen to her cupboards, Nynaeve said, “Which tea will you give me? Chainleaf? Or bluewort?”

“I would if I had any of either.” Mother Guenna rooted in the shelves a moment and came out with a stone jar. “Since I’ve had no time to glean of late, I will give you a brew of marshwhite leaves.”

“I am not familiar with that,” Nynaeve said slowly.

“It works as well as chainleaf, but it has a bite to the taste some don’t care for.” The big woman sprinkled dried and broken leaves into a blue teapot and carried it over to the fireplace to add hot water. “Do you follow the craft, then? Sit.” She gestured to the table with a hand holding two blue-glazed cups she had taken from the mantel. “Sit, and we’ll talk. Which of your friends is sick?”

“I am fine,” Dani said casually as she leant against a cupboard beside Ilyena. It was true; now that she was back on dry land her stomach was settling down.

Emara raised her hand as though they were back in Tar Valon taking a class. “I am still feeling a bit poorly, I must admit.”

“Then have a seat, girl. There’s barely a pick on you. Would you like some soup?”

Emara shook her head almost frantically. “No, thank you. Just the medicine please.”

“As you will.” The grey-haired woman poured out cups of dark liquid for Nynaeve and Emara, then sat across the table from them. “I made enough for more, and marshwhite tea keeps longer than salted fish. It works better the longer it sits, too, but it also grows more bitter. Makes a race between how much you need your stomach settled and what your tongue can stand. Drink, girls.”

Emara downed hers hastily. Nynaeve raised her own cup more cautiously, making a small sound of displeasure at the first taste. When she lowered the cup again, though, her face was smooth. “It is just a little bitter perhaps. Tell me, Mother Guenna, will we have to put up with this rain and mud much longer?”

The older woman frowned, parcelling displeasure among the lot of them before she settled on Nynaeve. “I am not a Sea Folk Windfinder, girl,” she said quietly. “If I could tell the weather, I’d sooner stick live silverpike down my dress than admit it. The Defenders take that sort of thing for next to Aes Sedai work. Now, do you follow the craft or not? You look as if you have been travelling. What is good for fatigue?” she barked suddenly.

“Flatwort tea,” Nynaeve said calmly, “or andilay root. Since you ask questions, what would you do to ease birthing?”

Mother Guenna snorted. “Apply warm towels, child, and perhaps give her a little whitefennel if it was an especially hard birth. A woman needs no more than that, and a soothing hand. Can’t you think of a question any country farmwife could not answer? What do you give for pains in the heart? The killing kind.”

“Powdered gheandin blossom on the tongue,” Nynaeve said crisply. “If a woman has biting pains in her belly and spits up blood, what do you do?”

They settled down as if testing each other, tossing questions and answers back and forth faster and faster. Sometimes the questioning lagged a moment when one spoke of a plant the other knew only by another name, but they picked up speed again, arguing the merits of tinctures against teas, salves against poultices, and when one was better than another. Slowly, all the quick questions began shifting toward the herbs and roots one knew that the other did not, digging for knowledge.

“After you give him the boneknit,” Mother Guenna was saying, “you wrap the broken limb in towelling soaked in water where you’ve boiled blue goatflowers—only the blue, mind!”—Nynaeve nodded impatiently—“and as hot as he can stand it. One part blue goatflowers to ten of water, no weaker. Replace the towels as soon as they stop steaming, and keep it up all day. The bone will knit twice as fast as with boneknit alone, and twice as strong.”

“I will remember that,” Nynaeve said. “You mentioned using sheepstongue root for eye pain. I’ve never heard—”

Pedra’s foot had been tapping impatiently on the floor. Now she broke into the women’s conversation. “Maryim. Do you really believe you’ll ever need to know these things again? You are not a Wisdom any longer, or have you forgotten?”

“I have not forgotten anything,” Nynaeve said sharply.

“Mother Guenna,” Elayne said blandly, “what do you do for two women who cannot stop arguing?”

The grey-haired woman pursed her lips and frowned at the table. “Usually, men or women, I tell them to stay away from each other. That is the best thing, and the easiest.”

“Usually?” Elayne said. “What if there is a reason they cannot stay apart. Say they are sisters.”

“I do have a way to make an arguer stop,” the big woman said slowly. “It is not something I urge anyone to try, but some do come to me.” Dani thought there was a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “I charge a silver mark each for women. Two for men, because men make more fuss. There are some will buy anything, if it costs enough.”

“But what is the cure?” Elayne asked.

“I tell them they have to bring the other one here with them, the one they argue with. Both expect me to quiet the other’s tongue. When they have paid me,” Mother Guenna said, flexing one hefty arm, “I take them out back and stick their heads in my rain barrel till they agree to stop their arguing.”

Elayne burst out laughing, and she was not alone.

“I think I may have done something very like that myself,” Nynaeve said in a voice that was much too light.

“I’d not be surprised if you have.” Mother Guenna was grinning openly now. “I tell them the next time I hear they’ve been arguing, I will do it for free, but I’ll use the river. It is remarkable how often the cure works, for men especially. And it is remarkable what it has done for my reputation. For some reason, none of the people I cure this way ever tells anyone else the details, so someone asks for the cure every few months. If you’ve been fool enough to eat mudfish, you do not go around telling people. I trust none of you have any wish to spend a silver mark.”

“I think not,” Pedra said, and glared at Elayne when she went off in peals of laughter again.

“Good,” the grey-haired woman said. “Those I cure of arguing have a tendency to avoid me like stingweed caught in their nets, unless they actually take sick, and I am enjoying your company. Most of those who come at present want something to take away bad dreams, and they grow sour when I have nothing to give them.” For a moment she slipped into a frown, rubbing her temples. “It is good to see faces that do not look as if there is nothing left but to jump over the side and drown. If you are staying long in Tear, you must come see me again. The girl called you Maryim? I am Ailhuin. The next time, we’ll talk over some good Sea Folk tea instead of something that curdles your tongue. Light, but I hate the taste of marshwhite; mudfish would taste sweeter. In fact, if you have time to stay now, I’ll brew a pot of Tremalking black. Not long till supper, either. It’s just bread and soup and cheese, but you are welcome.”

“That would be very nice, Ailhuin,” Nynaeve said. “Actually ... Ailhuin, if you have some spare bedrooms, I’d like to hire them.”

The big woman looked at each of them without saying anything. Getting to her feet, she tucked the pot of marshwhite tea away in the herb cupboard, then fetched a red teapot and a pouch from another. Only when she had brewed a pot of Tremalking black, put a dozen more cups and a bowl of honeycomb on the table along with pewter spoons, and reclaimed her chair did she speak.

“I’ve three empty bedrooms upstairs, now my daughters are all married. My husband, the Light shine on him, was lost in a storm in the Fingers of the Dragon near twenty years ago. There need be no talk of hiring, if I decide to let you have the rooms. If, Maryim.” Stirring honey into her tea, she studied them again.

“What will make you decide?” Nynaeve asked quietly.

Ailhuin continued to stir, as if she had forgotten to drink. “You, Maryim, know enough of the craft that you ought to have hung herbs in your window already, or should be choosing where to do it. I’ve never heard of a woman practicing the craft too far from where she was born, but by your tongue, you are a long way.” She glanced at Elayne. “Not many places with hair that colour. Andor, I’d say, by your speech. Fool men are always talking about finding a golden-haired Andor girl. The arguer here is Amadician, by her accent.” She glanced at Dani and Theodrin, with their reddish skin. “And you two are Domani, I’d wager. It’s as strange a group as I’ve ever seen. What I want to know is why you’re all here? Running away from something? Or running after something? Only, you don’t look like thieves to me, and I never heard of a dozen women chasing after a man together. So tell me why, and if I like it, the rooms are yours. If you want to pay something, you buy a bit of meat now and then. Meat is dear since the trade up to Cairhien fell away. But first the why, Maryim.”

“We are chasing after something, Ailhuin,” Nynaeve said. “Or rather, after some people.” Dani schooled herself to stillness and hoped she was doing as well as Elayne, who was sipping her tea as if she were listening to talk about dresses. There was little she could do about their other companions, not all of whom had come close to having an Aes Sedai’s composure yet. Wynifred, for example, still wore her heart on her face. Whether the shudder she gave while Nynaeve told her story helped or hindered them, Dani could not say, but she didn’t believe Ailhuin Guenna’s dark eyes missed a great deal. “They stole some things, Ailhuin,” Nynaeve went on. “From my mother. And they did murder. We are here to see justice done.”

“Burn my soul,” the large woman said, “have you no menfolk? Men are not good for much beyond heavy hauling and getting in the way, most of the time—and kissing and such—but if there’s a battle to be fought or a thief to catch, I say let them do it. Andor is as civilized as Tear. You are not Aiel.”

“There was no-one else but us,” Nynaeve said. “Those who might have come in our place were killed.”

_ The three murdered Aes Sedai,  _ Dani thought _ . They could not have been Black Ajah. But if they had not been killed, the Amyrlin would not have been able to trust them. She’s trying to keep to the Three Oaths, but she is skirting it close _ .

“Aaah,” Ailhuin said sadly. “They killed your men? Brothers, or husbands, or fathers?” Spots of colour bloomed in Nynaeve’s cheeks, and the older woman mistook the emotion. “No, don’t tell me, girl. I’ll not pull up old grief. Let it lie on the bottom till it melts away. There, there, you calm yourself.”

“I must tell you this,” Nynaeve said in a stiff voice. The red still coloured her face. “These murderers and thieves are Darkfriends. They are women, but they are as dangerous as any swordsman, Ailhuin. If you wondered why we did not seek an inn, that is why. They may know we follow, and they may be watching for us.”

Ailhuin waved it all away with a sniff. “Of the four most dangerous folk I know, two are women who never carry as much as a knife, and only one of the men is a swordsman. As for Darkfriends ... Maryim, when you are as old as I, you’ll learn that false Dragons are dangerous, lionfish are dangerous, sharks are dangerous, and sudden storms out of the south; but Darkfriends are fools. Filthy fools, but fools. The Dark One is locked up where the Creator put him, and no Fetches or fangfish to scare children will get him out. Fools don’t frighten me unless they’re working the boat I’m riding. I suppose you don’t have any proof you could take to the Defenders of the Stone? It would be just your word against theirs?”

“We will have proof when we find them,” Nynaeve said. “They will have the things they stole, and we can describe them. They are old things, and of little value to anyone but us, and our friends.”

“You would be surprised what old things can be worth,” Ailhuin said dryly. “Old Leuese Mulan pulled up three heartstone bowls and a cup in his nets last year, down in the Fingers of the Dragon. Now, instead of a fishing smack, he owns a ship trading up the river. Old fool did not even know what he had till I told him. Very likely there’s more right where those came from, but Leuese couldn’t even remember the exact spot. I do not know how he ever managed to get a fish into his net. Half the fishing boats in Tear were down there for months afterwards, dragging for  _ cuendillar _ , not grunts or flatfish, and some had lords saying where to pull the nets. That’s what old things can be worth, if they are old enough. Now, I’ve decided you do need a man in this, and I know just the one.”

“Who?” Nynaeve said quickly. “If you mean a lord, one of the High Lords, remember we have no proof to offer till we find them.”

Ailhuin laughed until she wheezed. “Girl, nobody from the Maule knows a High Lord, or any kind of lord. Mudfish don’t school with silversides. I will bring you the dangerous man I know who isn’t a swordsman, and the more dangerous of the two, at that. Juilin Sandar is a thief-catcher. The best of them. I do not know how it is in Andor, but here a thief-catcher will work for you or me as soon as for a lord or a merchant, and charge less at that. Juilin can find these women for you if they can be found, and bring your things back without you having to go near these Darkfriends.”

Nynaeve agreed as if she were still not entirely sure, and Ailhuin tied those platforms to her shoes—clogs, she called them—and hurried out. Dani watched her go, through one of the kitchen windows.

“You are learning how to be Aes Sedai, Maryim,” Pedra said. “You manipulate people as well as any.” Nynaeve’s face went white. She’d never made any secret of how little regard she had for the Aes Sedai’s ways, not to any of them or even to the Aes Sedai themselves. What Pedra intended with her “compliment” would have been obvious even if she wasn’t wearing such a malicious little smile.

Elayne stalked across the floor and slapped Pedra’s face. “You go too far,” she said sharply. “Too far. We must live together, or we will surely die together! Did you give Ailhuin your true name? Nynaeve told her what we could, that we seek Darkfriends, and that was risk enough, linking us with Darkfriends. She told her they were dangerous, murderers. Would you have had her say they are Black Ajah? In Tear? Would you risk everything on whether Ailhuin would keep that to herself?”

“Wouldn’t have thought she had it in her,” Dani muttered. Elayne spent most of her time trying to sooth every ruffled feather in sight. It took something special to get her to snap like that. But then, Pedra could be a special kind of obnoxious at times.

“Maybe there’s hope for her yet,” Ilyena whispered.

Elayne’s arm must have been stronger than it looked, for Pedra was rubbing her cheek gingerly. “I do not have to like doing it,” she said sulkily.

Dani frowned. Pedra had always been a diligent student. This would mark the first time she’d ever voiced a criticism of the Aes Sedai or their ways in her hearing. She’d always embraced them wholly and eagerly before. Dani wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Elayne hardly knew Pedra at all though, so she took her at face value. “I know,” she sighed. “Neither do I. But we do have to.”

Folding her arms, Dani leant back against the cupboard again. She liked Nynaeve and Elayne both, but they had some definite blind spots. The more she came to know them, the more she felt that they needed someone to watch their backs and prevent them from putting their own heads in the noose. They were a bit like her Ilyena in that way, unpolished but all the more precious for that. She just hoped she was up to the task of keeping them all out of trouble.


	24. A Storm in Tear

CHAPTER 21: A Storm in Tear

The Mother’s remedies seemed to work well, judging from the small sighs of relief Nynaeve and Emara were giving. Elayne was glad to see it. A healthy Nynaeve was a much more sensible Nynaeve.

She proved it, in Elayne’s eyes, by sending Asseil off to her room before the thief-catcher could arrive.

“This is unfair! I haven’t done anything to deserve this kind of treatment,” the pretty Taraboner objected, as she had many times on the journey south.

“You’ll have a chance to prove that soon,” Nynaeve said, unmoved. “Until then, you’ll do as you’re told. It’s in your best interests to not make us suspicious. Theodrin, Calindin, Pedra. Go with her and make the rooms as ready as you can. We may be here a while, and it will be a tight fit with so many of us, but we’ll have to make do.”

“It’s not my turn to watch her,” Pedra said, frowning.

“I didn’t tell you to watch her,” Nynaeve retorted, a touch impatiently.

Elayne could well understand. Pedra was not the sort of person whose company one welcomed, but rather endured. Not being obliged to put up with her, she was glad to see her go. She surreptitiously rubbed at her hand, which still stung from the slap she’d given the other woman. Nynaeve had the excuse of her upset tummy. What excuse did Elayne have for losing her composure like that? Pedra’s obnoxious behaviour was not enough to justify it. Well, she’d just have to do better in future.

The four Accepted left, with Pedra dragging her heels in a petty display obviously designed to show Nynaeve that she wouldn’t jump when she said so. Nynaeve ignored her.

Once they had left, Keestis grinned at Elayne. “Did you train with the Queen’s Guards in your spare time? I thought her head was about to come off.”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said, but she smiled as she said it. Keestis hadn’t always been willing to speak to her so casually, or at all. It was nice that she was willing to set Elayne’s titles aside and speak one girl to another.

“She was asking for it,” said Dani. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Wynifred nodded. “It makes me tired, having to listen to her complain about Nynaeve all the time. People like that are why I prefer the company of books.”

“Well. Perhaps she was asking for it at that,” she said, and sat up straighter. It was a rare blessing to be surrounded by so many good friends. It was almost enough to make her forget the frightful task that had brought them here.

“The Black Ajah won’t stand a chance against slugger here,” Ilyena drawled. And just like that, her pleasant mood evaporated. One could always rely on Ilyena to find the unfunny side of things.

When Ailhuin returned, she had a man with her, a lean fellow in his middle years who looked as if he had been carved from aged wood. Juilin Sandar took off his clogs by the door and hung his flat, conical straw hat on a peg. A sword-breaker, much like Hurin’s but with short slots to either side of the long one, hung from a belt over his brown coat, and he carried a staff exactly as tall as he was, but not much thicker than his thumb and made of that pale wood, like ridged joints, that the ox-drivers used for their goads. His skin was a lighter shade of brown than Mayam’s, and his short-cut black hair lay flat on his head. Quick, dark eyes seemed to note and record every detail of the room. And of everyone in it. Elayne would have bet he examined Nynaeve twice, and to her, at least, Nynaeve’s lack of reaction was blatant; it was obvious she knew it, too.

Ailhuin motioned him to a place at the table, where he turned back the cuffs of his coat sleeves, bowed, and sat with his staff propped against his shoulder, not speaking until the grey-haired woman had made a fresh pot of tea and everyone had sipped from their cups.

“Mother Guenna has told me of your problem,” he said quietly as he set his cup down. “I will help you if I can, but the High Lords may have their own business to put me to, soon.”

The big woman snorted. “Juilin, when did you begin haggling like a shopkeeper trying to charge silk prices for linen? Do not claim you know when the High Lords will summon you before they do.”

“I won’t claim it,” Sandar told her with a smile, “but I know when I’ve seen men on the rooftops in the night. Just out of the corner of my eye—they can hide like pipefish in reeds—but I have seen the movement. No-one has reported a theft yet, but there are thieves working inside the walls, and you can buy your supper with that. Mark me. Before another week, I’ll be summoned to the Stone because a band of thieves is breaking into merchants’ houses, or even lords’ manors. The Defenders may guard the streets, but when thieves need tracking they send for a thief-catcher, and me before any other. I am not trying to drive up my price, but whatever I do for these pretty women, I must do soon.”

“I believe he speaks the truth,” Ailhuin said reluctantly. “He’ll tell you the moon is green and water white if he thinks it will bring him a kiss, but he lies less than most men about other things. He may be the most honest man ever born in the Maule.” Elayne put a hand over her mouth, and struggled not to laugh. Nynaeve sat unmoved and obviously impatient.

Sandar grimaced at the grey-haired woman, then apparently decided to ignore what she had said. He smiled at Nynaeve. “I will admit that I’m curious about these thieves. I’ve known women thieves and bands of thieves, but I never heard of a band of women thieves before. And I owe Mother Guenna favours.” His eyes seemed to record Nynaeve all over again.

“What do you charge?” she asked sharply.

“To recover stolen goods,” he said briskly, “I ask the tenth part of the value of what I recover. For finding someone, I ask a silver mark for each person. Mother Guenna says the things stolen have little value except to you, mistress, so I suggest you take that choice.” He smiled again; he had very white teeth. “I would not take money from you at all, except that the guild would frown on it, but I will take as little as I can. A copper or two, no more.”

“I know a thief-taker,” Elayne told him. “From Shienar. A very respectful man. He carries a sword as well as a sword-breaker. Why do you not?”

Sandar looked startled for a moment, and then upset with himself for being startled. He had not caught her hint, or else had decided to ignore it. “You are not Tairen. I have heard of Shienar, mistress, tales of Trollocs, and every man a warrior.” His smile said these were tales for children.

Shimoku wore a confused frown. “What is funny about that?”

“Some southerners—most of them, in fact—are so sheltered that they think Shadowspawn just traveller’s tales,” said Ilyena, her lips twisting in disgust. “If it didn’t mean Volsung and the rest of the Borderlands falling, I might wish to see the looks on their faces when they learnt otherwise.”

The normally quiet and demure Kaltori looked outraged. “Just tales!?”

Sandar blinked at her in surprise, but forged on. “I am not a lord, nor a wealthy merchant, nor even a soldier. The Defenders do not trouble foreigners much for carrying swords—unless they mean to stay long, of course—but I would be thrust into a cell under the Stone. There are laws, mistress.” His hand rubbed along his staff, as if unconsciously. “I do as well as may be, without a sword.” He focused his smile on Nynaeve once more. “Now, if you will describe these things—”

He stopped as she set her purse on the edge of the table and counted out thirteen silver marks. Elayne thought she had chosen the lightest coins; most were Tairen, only one Andoran. The Amyrlin had given them a great deal of coin, but even that would not last forever.

Nynaeve looked into the purse thoughtfully before tightening the strings and putting it back into her pouch. “There are thirteen women for you to find, Master Sandar, with as much silver again when you do. Find them, and we will recover our property ourselves.”

“I will do that myself for less than this,” he protested. “And there’s no need for extra rewards. I charge what I charge. Have no fear I’ll take a bribe.”

“There is no fear of that,” Ailhuin agreed. “I said he is honest. Just do not believe him if he says he loves you.” Sandar glared at her.

“I pay the coin, Master Sandar,” Nynaeve said firmly, “so I choose what I am buying. Will you find these women, and no more?” She waited for him to nod, reluctantly, before going on. “They may be together, or not. The first is a Taraboner. She is a little taller than I, with dark eyes and pale, honey-coloured hair that she wears in many small braids after the Tarabon fashion. Some men might think her pretty, but she would not consider it a compliment. She has a mean, sulky mouth. The second is Kaltori. She has long black hair with a white streak above her left ear, and ...”

She gave no names, and Sandar asked for none. Names were so easily changed. His smile was gone now that the business was at hand. Thirteen women she described as he listened intently, and when she was done, Elayne suspected he could have recited them back word for word.

“Mother Guenna may have told you this,” Nynaeve finished, “but I will repeat it. These women are more dangerous than you can believe. Over a dozen have died at their hands already, that I know of, and I would not be surprised if that was only a drop of the blood on their hands.” Sandar and Ailhuin both blinked at that. “If they discover you are asking after them, you will die. If they take you they will make you tell where we are, and Mother Guenna will probably die with us.” The grey-haired woman looked disbelieving. “Believe it!” Nynaeve’s stare demanded agreement. “Believe it, or I’ll take back the silver and find another with more brains!”

“When I was young,” Sandar said, voice serious, “a cutpurse put her knife in my ribs because thought a pretty young girl wouldn’t be as quick to stab as a man. I do not make that mistake anymore. I will behave as if these women are all Aes Sedai, and Black Ajah.” Emara squeaked, Wynifred gasped, and Ronelle almost choked on her tea. Sandar shared a rueful grin with them all as he scooped the coins into his own purse and stuck it behind his sash. “I did not mean to frighten you, mistress. There are no Aes Sedai in Tear. It may take a few days, unless they are together. Thirteen women together will be easy to find; apart, they will be harder. But either way, I will find them. And I will not frighten them away before you learn where they are.”

When he had donned his straw hat and clogs and departed by the back door, Elayne said, “I hope he is not overconfident. Ailhuin, I heard what he said but ... He does understand that they are dangerous, does he not?”

“He has never been a fool except for a pair of eyes or a pretty ankle,” the grey-haired woman said, “and that is a failing of every man. He is the best thief-catcher in Tear. Have no worry. He will find these Darkfriends of yours.”

“It will rain again before morning.” Nynaeve shivered, despite the warmth of the room. “I feel a storm gathering.” Ailhuin only shook her head and set about filling bowls with fish soup for supper.

After they ate and cleaned up, Nynaeve and Ailhuin sat at the table talking of herbs and cures. Dani trounced anyone she could persuade to play her at stones, until Wynifred set aside the humorous tales of Aleria Elffin long enough to trounce her in turn. Dani wasn’t the only one to stare at her as she made her way back to her book, seemingly oblivious to their looks. Even Emara and Ronelle paused their whispered chat long enough to watch her walk by.

“Well done!” Elayne told her as she passed, and got a shy smile in return.

Not everyone had an interest in the stones game though. Keestis, who’d insisted on washing Mayam’s dishes for her, sat with her now, pretending to have an interest in Mayam’s favourite topic of conversation: boys. Shimoku was with them, surprisingly, as was Mair, unsurprisingly. She’d been one of Mat Cauthon’s conquests, the fool.

Elayne worked on a small patch of embroidery she had begun on the shoulder of her cloak, tiny blue and white flowers, then read a copy of  _ The Essays of Willim of Maneches _ that Ailhuin had on her small shelf of books. Her mind wasn’t entirely on the Essays though. Her Great Serpent ring and the twisted ring of the  _ ter’angreal _ hung on a leather cord about her neck, now. The stone ring felt cool against her skin, which was a pleasant distraction in this warm clime. Tempting even.

As night deepened, Ailhuin showed them to the bedrooms on the second floor. They would have to sleep five to a room and two at most to a bed, so the question of who was left to spread a blanket on the wooden floor was inevitably raised. Sensing the likelihood of an argument, Nynaeve made a quick decision. “We’ll swap around each night. Elayne, Theodrin and Mair get the beds first. No arguments.”

Elayne was grateful but knew better than to show it. She and Nynaeve ended up sharing a room with Dani, Ilyena and Shimoku. The presence of the other three made her uneasy, since they hadn’t been told about  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ or the  _ ter’angreal _ that allowed access to it, but she knew better than to show that, too.

At least, until the door had closed behind Ailhuin, leaving the five Accepted gathered by the light of a single lamp. Elayne had already undressed to her shift; the cord still hung ’round her neck with the two rings. The striped stone felt far heavier than the gold. She and Nynaeve regarded each other wordlessly for a minute, until Nynaeve gave a sigh. “It’s up to you,” she said.

“Then I’m going to use it.”

The other three looked at her in confusion. “Use what?” asked Dani.

Fishing it out of her shift, she showed them the ring that Verin had given her. “This. It’s a  _ ter’angreal _ . It allows whoever falls asleep holding it to reach the World of Dreams.”

“Where did you get such a thing?” said Ilyena, frowning.

“And what’s the World of Dreams,” added Shimoku.

“I’ve heard of that before,” Dani said slowly.

“Good. Then you and Nynaeve can explain while I try to sleep.” Leaving them to it, Elayne climbed into bed. Maybe she would meet Rand again in the dreamworld. The thought filled her with dread and anticipation, what with how embarrassingly memorable their last encounter had been. She lay down and closed her eyes. “Kindly wake me when two hours have passed.”

“Be very careful, Elayne. Please,” Nynaeve said quietly. She was tugging her braid in short jerks.

“I will.” Thunder rolled across the sky and rain drummed against the roof. As they so often had, the sounds lulled her off to sleep.

It was the rolling hills again, flowers and butterflies under spring sunshine, soft breezes and birds singing. She wore green silk, this time, with white lions embroidered over her breasts, and green velvet slippers. The  _ ter’angreal _ seemed light enough to drift up out of her dress except for the weight of the Great Serpent ring holding it down.

By simple trial and error she had learned a little of the rules of  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ —even this World of Dreams, this Unseen World, had its rules, if odd ones; she was sure she did not know a tenth of them—and one way to make herself go where she wanted. Closing her eyes, she emptied her mind as she would have to embrace  _ saidar _ . It was not as easy, because the rosebud kept trying to form, and she kept sensing the True Source, kept aching to embrace it, but she had to fill the emptiness with something else. She pictured the Heart of the Stone, as she had seen it in these dreams, formed it in every detail, perfect within the void. The huge, polished redstone columns. The dark, age-worn stones of the floor. The dome, far overhead. The crystal sword, untouchable, slowly revolving hilt-down in midair. When it was so real she was sure she could reach out and touch it, she opened her eyes, and she was there, in the Heart of the Stone. Or the Heart of the Stone as it existed in  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ .

The columns were there, and  _ Callandor _ . And around the sparkling sword, almost as dim and insubstantial as shadows, thirteen women sat cross-legged, staring at  _ Callandor _ as it revolved. Honey-haired Liandrin turned her head, looking straight at Elayne with those big, dark eyes, and her rosebud mouth smiled.

Gasping, Elayne sat up in bed so fast she almost fell off the side.

“What’s the matter?” Dani demanded. “Trouble sleeping? You look frightened.”

She was confused for a moment, until Nynaeve added softly, “You only just closed your eyes. Something happened, didn’t it?” She tugged her braid sharply. “Are you all right?”

_ How did I get back? _ Elayne wondered.  _ Light, I do not even know what I did _ . She knew she was only trying to put off what she had to say. Unfastening the cord around her neck, she set the Great Serpent ring and the larger, twisted  _ ter’angreal _ safely aside. “They are waiting for us,” she said finally. There was no need to say who. “And I think they know we are in Tear.”

Outside, the storm broke over the city.


	25. The Woman of Ebou Dar

CHAPTER 22: The Woman of Ebou Dar

The pouring rain suited Mat’s mood but that didn’t stop him from cursing it soundly as the ferrymen heaved their barge across the Arindrelle to Tear. He kept his hood well up, and not just to ward off the rain. He’d been practically living in that hood since fleeing Illian.

Even now, weeks and miles later, he shuddered to think of what was back there. A Forsaken! And he’d been right there in the room with him, alone! Well, not alone.  _ Bayle, you poor bastard. I’m sorry _ . There was little doubt in Mat’s mind that Sammael had killed him. He only hoped the end had been quick.

When Mat had dragged himself out of the canal, he’d been far away from the palace. Too far for him to see it, but did that mean he’d been far enough that the Forsaken couldn’t see him? Who knew what unnatural things they were capable of? There were even worse than Aes Sedai. Soaked and frightened, his mind had been full of one thing only: the need to escape that city as soon as possible. The only question had been how. He’d thought it over while running back to the Badger to collect his things and warn the innkeeper of the danger she was in. Not that she’d believed him, but at least he’d tried. Burn him! He  _ had _ tried.

He hadn’t dared go to the docks.  _ Spray _ was there, and Sammael already knew that it was Bayle’s ship. The docks would be the first place he’d look. Even so, Mat had spared a moment to bribe an urchin with more gold that he’d likely seen in his life to carry a message to Bayle’s second, telling him that Bayle had been killed by “Lord Brend”, and urging him to get out of Illian immediately.

Whether they’d listened or not, Mat couldn’t say.  _ It’s not my bloody business _ , he told himself angrily.  _ If those fool sailors haven’t the brains to run from a Forsaken, then on their heads be it. It wasn’t my job to save them! _

He’d told himself the same while galloping down the Maredo Causeway, kicking the stolen horse’s ribs in a way that would have won him a clout on the ear if his da had seen it. He’d run the horse to death getting clear of that too-narrow roadway through the swampland, and only spared a brief moment to apologise to the poor beast before running off into the woods on foot. He’d still feared that Sammael was following him back then, and hadn’t wanted to be anywhere the Forsaken might expect him to be. It had taken the best part of a day to find another town and buy another horse. He’d run that one to death as well. The grey he was currently leading was his third. He hadn’t even bothered naming it, for fear he’d have to go on another desperate gallop soon. But the Light had been kind for once, and no sign of pursuit had been seen.

That hadn’t stopped Mat from looking over his shoulder almost every other step of the journey to Tear.

Now he was here at last. He only wished his unease hadn’t come with him. Could Sammael have known that this was his destination? He’d mentioned it in front of some of the  _ Spray _ ’s crew. If they’d been captured and tortured then Mat might have an army of Shadowspawn waiting for him.

_ Burn me for a fool! I should have run north instead. Blood and ashes! Nynaeve and Elayne might be dead already. There’s no point in me even being here _ . But he knew he’d have to look for them first. Just for a bit though. A quick look through the inns. If there was no sign of them then Mat could be on his way, and no-one to say he hadn’t kept his word.

Rain bucketed down so hard that he could not see the dock except when lightning crackled above the city; the roar of the downpour barely let him hear himself think. He could see lights in windows up a street, though. There would be inns, up there. Holding his cloak to keep his precious roll of fireworks covered, he headed towards the lights. Better he got wet than the fireworks. He could dry out and be as good as new; a test with a bucket weeks earlier had shown fireworks could not. Rand’s da had been right. Mat had always thought the Village Council would not set them off in the rain because they made a better show on clear nights.

Mat cursed when his boots sank into the mud of the street, but there was nothing for it, so he kept on, striding along as fast as he could with his boots and the butt of his new staff sticking at every step. The air smelled of fish, rank even with the rain.

_ I’ll find an inn to store my things, and then I will go out looking, rain or no rain _ .

The quality of the inn he stayed at didn’t matter one bit to Mat, so he shoved open the door of the first one he came across. Enough light came out through the windows for him to make out the sign. A woman holding what he thought was a dagger, and the words “The Woman of Ebou Dar”.

The common room of the inn was brightly lit, the tables not near a quarter full so late. A few white-aproned serving women with mugs of ale or wine passed among the men, and a low murmur of talk ran under the sound of a harp being strummed and plucked. The patrons, some with pipes clenched in their teeth and one pair hunched over a stones board, had the look of ship’s officers and minor merchants from the smaller houses, their coats well cut and of fine wool, but with none of the gold or silver or embroidery that richer men might have had. There was no clack and rattle of dice to be heard. Fires blazed on the long hearths at the ends of the room, but even without those there would have been a warm feeling about the place.

The harper stood on a tabletop, reciting “Mara and the Three Foolish Kings”, to the music of his harp. His instrument, all worked in gold and silver, was fit for a palace. Mat knew him. He had saved Mat’s life, once.

The harper was a lean man who would have been tall except for a stoop, and he moved with a limp when he shifted his footing on the tabletop. Even here inside, he wore his cloak, all covered with fluttering patches in a hundred colours. He always wanted everyone to know he was a gleeman. His long moustaches and bushy eyebrows were as snow-white as the thick hair on his head.

Mat took a table, setting his things on the floor by his stool, and ordered two mugs. The pretty young serving girl’s big brown eyes twinkled at him.

“Two, young master? You do not look such a hard-drinking man as that.” Her voice held a mischievous edge of laughter.

After rummaging a bit, he brought out two silver pennies from his pocket. One more than paid for the wine, but he slipped her another for her eyes. “My friend will be joining me.”

He knew Thom Merrilin had seen him. The old gleeman had nearly stopped the story dead when Mat came in. That was odd. Few things startled Thom enough for him to let it show, and nothing short of Trollocs had ever made him stop a story in the middle that Mat knew. When the girl brought the wine and his coppers in change, he let the pewter mugs sit and listened to the end of the story.

“ ‘It was as we have said it should be,’ said King Madel, trying to untangle a fish from his long beard.” Thom’s voice seemed almost to echo inside a great hall, not an ordinary common room. His plucked harp sounded the three kings’ final foolishness. “ ‘It was as we said it would be,’ announced Orander. And, feet slipping in the mud, he sat down with a great splash. ‘It was as we said it must be,’ proclaimed Kadar as he searched, up to his elbows in the river, for his crown. ‘The woman knows not whereof she speaks. She is the fool!’ Madel and Orander agreed with him loudly. And with that, Mara had had enough. ‘I’ve given them all the chances they deserve and more,’ she murmured to herself. Slipping Kadar’s crown into her bag with the first two, she climbed back onto her cart, clucked to her mare, and drove straight back to her village. And when Mara had told them all that happened, the people of Heape would have no king at all.” He strummed the major theme of the kings’ foolishness once more, this time sliding to a crescendo that sounded even more like laughter, before making a sweeping bow.

Men laughed and stamped their feet, though likely every one of them had heard the story many times before, and called for more. The story of Mara was always well received, except perhaps by kings.

Thom was more unsteady in his walk than he had been when Mat had last seen him. He favoured a somewhat stiff leg as he came to where Mat was sitting. Casually putting his harp on the table, he dropped onto a stool in front of the second mug and gave Mat a flat stare. His eyes, as ever, were as sharp as awls.

“Common,” he muttered. His voice was still deep, but it no longer seemed to reverberate. “The tale is a hundred times better in Plain Chant, and a thousand in High, but they want Common.” Without another word, he buried his face in his wine.

It was a relief to see the gleeman alive and hear him complaining about his listeners; Thom never thought their standards were as high as his.

“Moiraine always said she thought you were alive. But I never knew what to believe.”

Thom’s eyes sharpened. “Moiraine. A fine-looking woman. A fine woman, if she were not Aes Sedai. Meddle with that sort, and you get more than your fingers burned.”

“Believe me, I know,” Mat said bitterly.

“Did it turn out badly for your lot then?”

He took a drink before answering, to wash the taste from his mouth. “Can’t say. I haven’t seen anybody but Nynaeve in a long while.”

“You haven’t seen Rand lately then?” Thom pressed. “I am not sure I expected that. You two always seemed thick as thieves. I was going to ask you if he was alright.”

“Why wouldn’t you expect Rand to be alright?” Mat asked carefully. “Do you know of something that could harm him?”

“Know? I don’t know anything, boy. I suspect more than is healthy for me, but I know nothing.” Mat abandoned that line of talk.  _ No use firming his suspicions. No use letting him know I know more than’s healthy myself _ .

The serving girl was back, with no twinkle in her eyes. “Oh, Thom,” she said softly, “you need some rest. They’ll keep you telling stories all night and all day, if you let them.”

Another woman appeared on Thom’s other side, lifting her apron off over her head. She was older than the first, but no less pretty. The two might have been sisters. “A beautiful story, I’ve always thought, Thom, and you tell it beautifully. Come, I’ve slipped a warming pan into your bed, and you can tell me all about the court in Caemlyn.”

Thom peered into the mug as if surprised to find it empty, then blew out his long moustaches and looked from one woman to the other. “Pretty Mada. Pretty Saal. Did I ever tell you that two pretty women have loved me in my life? That is more than most men can claim.”

“You’ve told us all about it, Thom,” the older woman said sadly.

“Two,” Thom murmured. “Morgase had a temper, but I thought I could ignore that, so it ended with her wanting to kill me. I won’t make such mistakes with Dena.”

“Who’s Dena?” Mat said. Mada and Saal both glared at him. He gave them his best smile, but it did not work. His stomach muttered loudly. “Don’t I smell chicken roasting? Bring me one. Do you want something to eat, too, Thom?”

“You’ll have some chicken, Thom. It is very good,” the younger woman said.

Neither would leave until the gleeman agreed to eat something, and when they did go, they gave Mat such a combination of stares and sniffs that he could only shake his head.  _ Burn me, you would think it was my fault he was ignoring them. _ So far as he knew, Thom had no interest in men.  _ Women! But pretty eyes on the pair of them _ .

The older woman—Thom called her Mada—came back with a chicken with crisp, brown skin, before she left. Mat ripped off a leg and set to as he talked.

“Why are you here in Tear, Thom? Weren’t you talking about going to Illian for the festivals?” He didn’t dare ask it directly, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Thom had figured out who Lord Brend really was. He had a way of ferreting out people’s secrets, did Thom Merrilin.

“Illian,” the old gleeman muttered, the sharpness fading from his eyes. “No, it was Cairhien I went to.” He made a flourish with one hand and was holding a knife. Thom always had knives secreted about him. “Trouble found me there as well. Dena and I got out just before the civil war started. A man and a woman, each a stranger to virtue, die, and others pay for it. There’s always a balance, you know. Good and evil. Light and Shadow. We would not be human if there wasn’t a balance.”

“Put that away,” Mat growled around a mouthful. “I don’t want to talk about killing.”

With a sour look, Thom made the knife disappear. “You asked why I’m in Tear? Hoping to avoid trouble. Unfortunately, it just walked in the door.”

Mat gave a start and looked back over his shoulder, half expecting to see Sammael’s scarred face. The inn’s doorway was empty though, and when he turned back to the gleeman he found him smiling mockingly. “And to think I used to think you the cleverest of those three.”

“It’s been a nerve-wracking few weeks, okay?” Mat growled disgustedly.

Thom snorted. “The trouble I speak of is you, boy.”

Before Mat could protest his innocence, a woman’s voice interrupted them. “Another one, Thom? I hope we aren’t going to have to leave town again, now that I’ve made a name for myself here.”

Thom smiled, and when Mat glanced over at the approaching woman, he smiled, too. The speaker was a pretty girl about his own age, who looked a bit like a younger, less stuck-up Moiraine. She had a hint of Moiraine’s accent as well, but just a hint. She studied Mat with an outthrust chin and narrowed eyes. If he was trouble, as Thom had said, he was trouble she meant to put a stop to.

“This must be Dena. No wonder you’ve gone all blushy and stammery, Thom.”

They swapped expressions at that, Dena bursting into laughter while Thom glared at Mat. His glare only got hotter when she took a seat at the table, rested her arm on the chairback and smiled at Mat. “So why does Thom think you are trouble, stranger?”

“Search me. I’m as innocent as a lamb.”

He matched expression to words but neither was able to fool her. “And I’m the Queen of Cairhien. Where did you find this one, Thom?”

“The same place I found young Rand,” Thom sighed. “In the back end of nowhere.”

“Well we all have to come from somewhere,” Mat muttered. He was right about Emond’s Field—it really was the back end of nowhere. But that didn’t mean Mat had to like hearing outsiders call it that.

Dena sniffed. “So the big redhead was the Lord of Nowhere then. Didn’t stop him taking on airs. Nobles!”

The two men at the table exchanged secretive looks before burying their faces in their winecups. Mat hadn’t seen Rand in a long time and wasn’t eager to change that.  _ So he’s taking on airs now, is he? _ That was better than going completely mad, he supposed, but how long until he did that as well?

“It’s not him you’re here for?” Thom asked after a minute.

“No. Nynaeve and Elayne need their bacons pulled out of the fire,” Mat sighed. “And who gets stuck with the job of doing it? Mat bloody Cauthon, that’s who. Typical women. I bet I won’t even get a kiss for my trouble either.” Ignoring Dena’s flat look, he fixed his attention on Thom. “You’ve been here a while, right? Have you heard anything about a loud-mouthed woman with a braid, and a snooty Andoran lady? Or a foreigner asking after them? That’d be Comar. He’s been sent to kill them.”

“A snooty Andoran Lady named Elayne,” Thom murmured, stroking his moustaches thoughtfully.

“And Nynaeve. You remember Nynaeve, don’t you?”

The gleeman snorted. “You don’t meet Nynaeve and not remember her, boy. If she and this other girl are in Tear, I’ve not heard of it.” He grimaced then, as though admitting to not knowing something was painful. The old man really was full of himself.

“Well I’ll just have to look myself, or find someone better informed,” Mat said.

“As if you’d even be able to find your way around the city without help,” Thom scoffed. “Don’t think I don’t remember you gaping at Baerlon as though it was the grandest city in the world.”

Scowling, Mat took a particularly big bite of the chicken. Just because it was true didn’t mean that Thom had to say it.

“I suppose you’ll be needing my help again,” Thom went on. “Well I suppose there’s little helping it. Not if those girls are in as much trouble as you say.”

“Thom ...”

“Now, Dena, don’t start—”

“Don’t you shush me! Never mind that it’s pouring down out there, you want to get mixed up with some kind of assassin? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

He put his hand on hers and made his voice soft. “This is something I have to do, lass. I know those girls. You wouldn’t expect me to just let them die, would you?”

“Of course not,” she sighed. “Just like you wouldn’t expect me to just let you go into danger without me.”

“Dena ...”

“Now, Thom, don’t start,” she said, smiling sweetly.

The gleeman blew out his moustaches in exasperation, then he glanced at the chicken platter and gave a start. “What did you do, boy? Stuff it up your sleeve?” There was nothing left of the bird but bones and a carcass with only a few strips of flesh remaining.

“Sometimes I get hungry,” Mat muttered. It was an effort not to lick his fingers. “Are you coming with me, or not?”

“Oh, I will come, boy.” Thom pushed himself to his feet. “You wait here—and try not to eat the table—while we get our things and say some goodbyes.” He limped away with Dena at his side.

Mat drank a little of his wine and stripped off a few shreds that were left on the chicken carcasses before seeking out the innkeeper. Lean with weathered skin, Master Arjento was more than glad to give him a room. He frowned at the muddy boots, but silver from Mat’s pocket—the gold was running low—smoothed his forehead a little. Mat left everything but his cloak and his quarterstaff in his room, barely looking to see that it had a bed—sleep was enticing, but he refused to let himself think of it—before heading downstairs.

Thom was back by then, with his harp and flute in their dark leather cases hung on his back. He carried a plain walking staff as tall as he was.

Dena had a matching pair of instruments on her back, and to Mat’s surprise had donned a patchwork cloak similar to Thom’s. A gleewoman? He’d never heard of such a thing. Female bards, sure, but the gleeman’s trade involved travelling alone to all manner of rough places. It wasn’t something that women usually got involved in.

The two serving girls watched Thom go. Mat decided they were sisters. Identical big brown eyes looked up at the gleeman with identical expressions. Thom waved at first Saal, then Mada as he headed for the door, jerking his head for Mat to follow. Dena lingered only long enough to give the serving women a warning look.

“Blood and ashes. It’s gotten even worse,” Thom was saying when Mat joined him outside. “Do you really mean to search the city in this weather?” Rain was rolling down his face, but he was more interested in keeping his instruments covered than his face. Dena hugged her patched cloak tightly around her shoulders.

“Comar could have left Caemlyn before me,” Mat explained. “If he had a good horse instead of the crowbait I was riding, he could have set out downriver ahead of me, too, and he might even have been able to find a ship to take him here from Illian. Rain or no rain, I have to find him before he finds Nynaeve and Elayne.”

“A few more hours won’t make much difference, boy. There are hundreds of inns in a city the size of Tear. There may be hundreds more outside the walls, some of them little places with no more than a dozen rooms to let, so tiny you could walk right by them and never know they were there.” The gleeman hitched the hood of his cloak up more, muttering to himself. “It will take weeks to search them all. But it will take Comar the same weeks. We can spend the night in out of the rain. You can wager whatever coin you have that Comar won’t be out in it.”

Mat shook his head. A tiny inn with a dozen rooms. Before he left Emond’s Field, the biggest building he had ever seen was the Winespring Inn. He doubted if Marin al’Vere had any more than a dozen rooms to let. Egwene had lived with her parents and her sisters in the rooms at the front of the second floor.  _ Burn me, sometimes I think we should never any of us have left Emond’s Field _ . But Rand surely had had to, and Egwene would probably have died anyway without an Aes Sedai to teach her to control the One Power. He did not think he could settle for the farm again; the cows and the sheep certainly would not play dice. But Perrin and Anna still had a chance to go home. Assuming they were still alive _ . Go home, Perrin _ , he found himself thinking.  _ Go home and marry Anna while you still can _ . He gave himself a shake.  _ Fool! Why would he want to? _ He thought of bed, but pushed it away.  _ Not yet _ .

Lightning streaked across the sky, three jagged bolts together, casting a stark light over a narrow house that seemed to have bunches of herbs hanging in the windows, and a shop, shut up tight, but a potter’s from the sign with its bowls and plates. Yawning, he hunched his shoulders against the driving rain and tried to pull his boots out of the clinging mud more quickly.

“I think I can forget about this part of the city, Thom,” he shouted. “All this mud, and that stink of fish. Can you see Nynaeve—or Elayne!—choosing to stay here? Women like things neat and tidy, Thom, and smelling good.”

“Maybe, boy,” Thom muttered, then coughed. “You would be surprised what women will put up with. But it may be.”

“You’ll be surprised at what they won’t, too. And sooner than you think,” added Dena.

Mat lengthened his stride. “Come on Thom. I want to find Comar or the girls tonight, one or the other.”

Thom limped after him, coughing now and again.

They strode through the wide gates to the inner city—unguarded, in the rain—and Mat was relieved to feel paving stones under his feet again. And not more than fifty paces up the street was an inn, the windows of the common room spilling light onto the street, music drifting out into the night. Even Thom covered that last fifty paces through the rain quickly, limp or no limp.

The White Crescent had a landlord whose girth made his long blue coat fit snugly below the waist as well as above, unlike those of most of the men in the low-backed chairs at the tables. Mat thought the landlord’s baggy breeches, tied at the ankle above low shoes, had to be big enough for two ordinary men to fit inside, one in each leg. The serving women wore dark, high-necked dresses and short white aprons. There was a fellow playing a hammered dulcimer between the two stone fireplaces. Thom eyed the fellow critically and shook his head. The rotund innkeeper, Cavan Lopar by name, knew nothing of a big man with a white streak in his beard, nor of two women meeting the descriptions Mat gave. Thom and Dena warmed themselves by the fire while Mat questioned the man. When he got his answers and promptly rushed back out into the rain, he was surprised that they came with him.

“I’d have thought you’d want to stay in where it’s dry, Thom.”

The gleeman patted the instrument cases he had under his cloak. “People talk to a gleeman, boy. I may learn something you would not. I’d not like to see those girls harmed any more than you.”

There was another inn a hundred paces down the rain-filled street on the other side, and another two hundred beyond that, and then more. Mat took them as he came to them, ducking in long enough for Thom to flourish his cloak and tell a story, while Dena let some hopeful man or woman buy her a cup of wine, and Mat asked around after a tall man with a white streak in his close-cut black beard and three women. He won a few coins at dice, but he learned nothing, and neither did Thom or his girl. By the time they had visited two dozen common rooms, Mat felt as if his eyelids had weights. The rain had lessened a bit, but it still fell steadily in big drops, and as the rain fell off the wind had freshened. The sky had the dark grey look of coming dawn.

“Boy,” Thom muttered, “if we don’t go back to The Woman of Ebou Dar, I am going to go to sleep here in the rain.” He stopped to cough. “Do you realize you’ve marched right past three inns? Light, am so tired I can’t think. Do you have a scheme of where to go that you have not told me?”

Mat stared blearily up the street at a tall man in a grey coat hurrying around a corner.  _ Light, I am tired. Rand is hardly going to be in Tear. They hate the One Power here _ . “What? Three inns?” They were standing almost in front of another, The Golden Cup according to the sign creaking in the wind. It looked nothing like a dice cup, but he decided to give it a try anyway. “One more, Thom. If we don’t find them here, we’ll go back and go to bed.” Bed sounded better than a dice game with a hundred gold marks riding on the toss, but he made himself go in.

Two steps into the common room Mat saw him. The big man wore a green coat with blue stripes down puffy sleeves, but it was Comar, close-cut black beard with a white streak over his chin and all. He sat in one of the strangely low-backed chairs, at a table on the far side of the room, rattling a leather dice cup and smiling at the man across from him. That fellow wore a long coat and baggy breeches, and he was not smiling. He stared at the coins on the table as if wishing he had them back in his purse. Another dice cup sat at Comar’s elbow.

Comar upended the leather cup in his hand, and began laughing almost before the dice stopped spinning. “Who is next?” he called loudly, pulling the wager to his side of the table. There was already a considerable pile of silver in front of him. He scooped the dice into the cup and rattled them. “Surely someone else wants to try his luck?” It seemed that no-one did, but he kept rattling the cup and laughing.

The innkeeper was easy to pick out, though they did not seem to wear aprons in Tear. His coat was the same shade of deep blue as that of every other innkeeper Mat had spoken to. A plump man, though little more than half the size of Lopar and with half that fellow’s number of chins, he was sitting at a table by himself, polishing a pewter mug furiously and glaring across the room toward Comar, though not when Comar was looking. Some of the other men gave the bearded man sidelong frowns, too. But not when he was looking.

Mat suppressed his first urge, which was to rush over to Comar, drub him over the head with his quarterstaff, and demand to know where Nynaeve was. Something was wrong here. Comar was the first man he had seen wearing a sword, but the way the men looked at him was more than fear of a swordsman. Even the serving woman who brought Comar a fresh cup of wine—and was pinched for her trouble—had a nervous laugh for him.

_ Look at it from every side _ , Mat thought wearily.  _ Half the trouble I get into is from not doing that. I have to think _ . Tiredness seemed to have stuffed his head with wool. He motioned to Thom and Dena, and they strolled over to the innkeeper, who eyed them suspiciously when they sat down. “Who is the man with the stripe in his beard?” Mat asked.

“Not from the city, are you?” the innkeeper said. “He is a foreigner, too. I’ve never seen him before tonight, but I know what he is. Some outlander who has come here and made his fortune in trade. A merchant rich enough to wear a sword. That is no reason for him to treat us like this.”

“If you have never seen him before,” Mat said, “how do you know he is a merchant?”

The innkeeper looked at him as if he were stupid. “His coat, man, and his sword. He cannot be a lord or a soldier if he’s from off, so he has to be a rich merchant.” He shook his head for the stupidity of foreigners. “They come to our places, to look down their noses at us, and fondle the girls under our very eyes, but he has no call to do this. If I go to the Maule, I don’t gamble for some fisherman’s coins. If I go to the Tavar, I do not dice with the farmers come to sell their crops.” His polishing gained in ferocity. “Such luck, the man has. It must be how he made his fortune.”

“He wins, does he?” Yawning, Mat wondered how he would do dicing with another man who had luck.

“Sometimes he loses,” the innkeeper muttered, “when the stake is a few silver pennies. Sometimes. But let it reach a silver mark ... No less than a dozen times tonight, I have seen him win at Crowns with three crowns and two roses. And half again as often, at Top, it has been three sixes and two fives. He tosses nothing but sixes at Threes, and three sixes and a five every throw at Compass. If he has such luck, I say the Light shine on him, and well to him, but let him use it with other merchants, as is proper. How can a man have such luck?”

“Weighted dice,” Thom said, then coughed. “When he wants to be sure of winning, he uses dice that always show the same face. He is smart enough not to have made it the highest toss—folk become suspicious if you always throw the king, just one that’s all but impossible to beat, but he cannot change that they always show the same face.”

“I have heard of such,” the innkeeper said slowly. “Illianers use them, I hear.” Then he shook his head. “But both men use the same cup and dice. It cannot be.”

“Bring me two dice cups,” Thom said, “and two sets of dice. Crowns or spots, it makes no difference, so long as they are the same.”

The innkeeper frowned at him, but left—prudently taking the pewter cup with him—and came back with two leather cups. Thom rolled the five bone cubes from one onto the table in front of Mat. Whether with spots or symbols, every set of dice Mat had ever seen had been either bone or wood. These had spots. He picked them up, frowning at Thom. “Am I supposed to see something?”

Thom dumped the dice from the other cup into his hand, then, almost too quickly to follow, dropped them back in and twisted the cup over to rest upside down on the table before the dice could fall out. He kept his hand on top of the cup. “Put a mark on each of them, boy. Something small, but something you’ll know for your mark.”

Dena smiled knowingly, but Mat found himself exchanging puzzled glances with the innkeeper. Then they both looked at the cup upside down under Thom’s hand. He knew Thom was up to something tricky—gleemen were always doing things that were impossible, like eating fire and pulling silk out of the air—but he did not see how Thom could do anything with him watching close. He unsheathed his belt knife and made a small scratch on each die, right across the circle of six spots.

“All right,” he said, setting them back on the table. “Show me your trick.”

Thom reached over and picked up the dice, then set them down again a foot away. “Look for your marks, boy.”

Mat frowned. Thom’s hand was still on the upended leather cup; the gleeman had not moved it or taken Mat’s dice anywhere near it. He picked up the dice ... and blinked. There was not a scratch on them. The innkeeper gasped.

Thom turned his free hand over, revealing five dice. “Your marks are on these. That is what Comar is doing. It is a child’s trick, simple, though I’d never have thought he had the fingers for it.”

“I do not think I want to play dice with you after all,” Mat said slowly. The innkeeper was staring at the dice, but not as if he saw any solution. “Call the Watch, or whatever you call it here,” Mat told him. “Have him arrested.”  _ He’ll kill nobody in a prison cell. Yet what if they are already dead? _ He tried not to listen, but the thought persisted.  _ Then I’ll see him dead, and Gaebril, whatever it takes! But they aren’t, burn me! They can’t be! _

The innkeeper was shaking his head. “Me? Me, denounce a merchant to the Defenders? They would not even look at his dice. He could say one word, and I would be in chains working the channeldredges in the Fingers of the Dragon. He could cut me down where I stood, and the Defender would say I had earned it. Perhaps he will go away after a while.”

Mat gave him a wry grimace. “If I expose him, will that be good enough? Will you call the Watch, or the Defenders or whoever, then?”

“You do not understand. You are a foreigner. Even if he is from off, he is a wealthy man, important.”

“He’s right,” said Dena. “Maybe it’s different in Andor, but here, as in Cairhien, a noble’s word is all but law. For commoners, it is better to avoid a fight that you can’t win.”

“Nobles! They’re nearly as bad as Aes Sedai,” Mat growled. “Wait here. I do not mean to let him reach Nynaeve and Elayne, whatever it takes.” He yawned as he scraped back his chair.

“Wait, boy,” Thom called after him, soft yet urgent. The gleeman pushed himself up out of his chair. “Burn you, you don’t know what you’re putting your foot into!”

Mat waved for him to stay there and walked over to Comar. No-one else had taken up the bearded man’s challenge, and he eyed Mat with interest as Mat leaned his quarterstaff against the table and sat down.

Comar studied Mat’s coat and grinned nastily. “You want to wager coppers, farmer? I do not waste my time with—” He cut off as Mat set an Andoran gold crown on the table and yawned at him, making no effort to cover his mouth. “You say little, farmer, though your manners could use improving, but gold has a voice of its own and no need of manners.” He shook the leather cup in his hand and spilled the dice out. He was chuckling before they came to rest, showing three crowns and two roses. “You’ll not beat that, farmer. Perhaps you have more gold hidden in those rags that you want to lose? What did you do? Rob your master?”

He reached for the dice, but Mat scooped them up ahead of him. Comar glared, but let him have the cup. If both tosses were the same, they would throw again until one man won. Mat smiled as he rattled the dice. He did not mean to give Comar a chance to change them. If they threw the same toss three or four times in a row—exactly the same, every time—even these Defenders would listen. The whole common room would see; they would have to back his word.

He spilled the dice onto the tabletop. They bounced oddly. He felt—something—shifting. It was as if his luck had gone wild. The room seemed to be writhing around him, tugging at the dice with threads. For some reason he wanted to look at the door, but he kept his eyes on the dice. They came to rest. Five crowns. Comar’s eyes looked ready to pop out of his head.

“You lose,” Mat said softly. If his luck was in to this extent, perhaps it was time to push it. A voice in the back of his head told him to think, but he was too tired to listen. “I think your luck is about used up, Comar. If you’ve harmed those girls, it’s all gone.”

“I have not even found ...” Comar began, still staring at the dice, then jerked his head up. His face had gone white. “How do you know my name?”

He had not found them, yet.  _ Luck, sweet luck, stay with me _ . “Go back to Caemlyn, Comar. Tell Gaebril you could not find them. Tell him they are dead. Tell him anything, but leave Tear tonight. If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”

“Who are you?” the big man said unsteadily. “Who—?” The next instant his sword was out and he was on his feet.

Mat shoved the table at him, overturning it, and grabbed for his quarterstaff. He had forgotten how big Comar was. The bearded man pushed the table right back at him. Mat fell over with his chair, holding a bare grasp on his staff, as Comar heaved the table out of the way and stabbed at him. Mat threw his feet against the man’s middle to stop his rush, swung the staff awkwardly, just enough to deflect the sword. But the blow knocked the staff from his fingers, and he found himself gripping Comar’s wrist, instead, with the man’s blade inches from his face. With a grunt he rolled backwards, heaving as hard as he could with his legs. Comar’s eyes widened as he sailed over Mat to crash onto a table, face up. Mat scrambled for his staff, but when he had it, Comar had not moved.

The big man lay with his hips and legs sprawled across the top of the table, the rest of him hanging down with his head on the floor. The men who had been sitting at the table were on their feet a safe distance away, wringing their hands and eyeing each other nervously. A low, worried buzz filled the common room, not the noise Mat expected.

Comar’s sword lay within easy reach of his hand. But he did not move. He stared at Mat though, as Mat kicked the sword away and went to one knee beside him.  _ Light! I think his back is broken! _ “I told you you should have gone, Comar. Your luck is all used up.”

“Fool,” the big man breathed. “Do you ... think I ... was the only ... one hunting them? They won’t ... live till ...” His eyes stared at Mat, and his mouth was open, but he said no more. Nor ever would again.

Mat met the glazing stare, trying to will more words out of the dead man.  _ Who else, burn you? Who? Where are they? My luck. Burn me, what happened to my luck? _ He became aware of the innkeeper pulling frantically at his arm.

“You must go. You must. Before the Defenders come. I will show them the dice. I will tell them it was an outlander, but a tall man. With red-coloured hair, and grey eyes. No-one will suffer. A man I dreamed of last night. No-one real. No-one will contradict me. He took coin from everyone with his dice. But you must go. You must!” Everyone else in the room was studiously looking another way.

Mat let himself be hauled away from the dead man and pushed outside. Thom was already waiting in the rain with Dena at his side. While she slid a narrow little knife back up her sleeve, he seized Mat’s arm and limped down the street hurriedly, pulling Mat stumbling behind him. Mat’s hood hung down his back; the rain soaked his hair and poured down his face, down his neck, but he did not notice. The gleeman kept looking over his shoulder, searching the street beyond Mat.

“Are you asleep, boy? You did not look asleep back there. Come on, boy. The Defenders will arrest any outlander within two streets, no matter what description that innkeeper gives.”

“It’s the luck,” Mat mumbled. “I’ve figured it out. The dice. My luck works best when things are ... random. Like dice. Not much good for cards. No good at stones. Too much pattern. It has to be random. Even finding Comar. I’d stopped visiting every inn. I walked into that one by chance. Thom if I am going to find Nynaeve in time, I have to look without any pattern.”

“What are you talking about? The man is dead. If he already killed them ... Well, you’ve avenged them. If he hasn’t, you saved them. Now will you bloody walk faster? The Defenders won’t be long coming, and they are not so gentle as the Queen’s Guards.”

Mat shook his arm free and picked up his pace unsteadily, dragging the quarterstaff. “He let it slip that he hadn’t located them, yet. But he said he was not the only one. Thom, I believe him. I was looking him in the eye, and he was telling the truth. I still have to find them, Thom. And now I don’t even know who is after them. I have to find them.”

Stifling a huge yawn with his fist, Thom pulled Mat’s hood up against the rain. “Not tonight, boy. I need sleep, and so do you.”

_ Wet. My hair’s dripping in my face _ . His head seemed fuzzy. With a need for sleep, he realized after a moment. And he realized how tired he was, if he had to think just to know it. “All right, Thom. But I am going to look again as soon as it’s light.” Thom nodded and coughed, and they made their way back towards The Woman of Ebou Dar through the rain.

“It’s an unlikely pair of heroes we have here,” said Dena. “but maybe there’s a song to be made about you two.”

Mat couldn’t imagine how he’d be described in one of those flowery songs Thom liked to sing, but a bit of fame could get a man a lot of free drinks and eager kisses, so ... “Sing away, Dena. Just try to make it a good one.”

Dawn was not long in coming, but Mat rousted himself out of bed, intent on trying to search every inn inside the walls of Tear. Thom and Dena were not so eager to leave though, not without a good breakfast and some time to prepare. They gathered in Mat’s room rather than their own, bigger one. While they ate, Mat amused himself by wondering what was in there that the couple didn’t want him to see. Thom was a horny old dog. Who knew what he got up to?

With one curiosity piqued, others soon followed. He found himself weighing the familiar bundle of fireworks in his hands while wondering, for the umpteenth time, what was in them. Feeling bold, Mat took one of the smaller ones out, unsheathed his belt knife, and hesitated.  _ Luck. It only explodes sometimes _ , she said.  _ Luck _ .

As carefully as he could, he slit along the length of the tube. It was a tube, and of paper, as he had thought—he had found bits of paper on the ground after fireworks were set off, back home—layers of paper, but all that filled the inside was something that looked like dirt, or maybe tiny grey-black pebbles and dust. He stirred them on his palm with one finger. How in the Light could pebbles explode?

“The Light burn me!” Thom roared, staring wide-eyed at what was in Mat’s hands. He thrust the harp he had been tuning into its case as if to protect it from what was in Mat’s hand. “Where did you get that? Are you trying to kill us, boy? Haven’t you ever heard those things explode ten times as hard for air as for fire? Fireworks are the next thing to Aes Sedai work, boy.”

Dena, who had jumped at Thom’s roar, began choking on her breakfast bread when she, too, saw what Mat was doing.

“Maybe,” Mat said, “but the woman who gave them to me was no Aes Sedai. I used to think that about Mistress al’Vere’s clock—that it had to be Aes Sedai work—but once I got the back of the cabinet open, I saw it was full of little pieces of metal.” He shifted uncomfortably at the memory. Mistress al’Vere had been the first to reach him that time, with the Wisdom and his father and his mother all right behind her, and none believing he just meant to look.  _ I could have put them all back together _ . “I think Perrin could make one, if he saw those little wheels and springs and I don’t know what all.”

“You would be surprised, boy,” Thom said dryly. “Even a bad clockmaker is a fairly rich woman, and they earn it. But a clock does not explode in your face!”

“Neither did this. Well, it is useless, now.” He tossed the handful of paper and little pebbles into the fire to a screech from Thom; the pebbles sparked and made tiny flashes, and there was a smell of acrid smoke.

“You are trying to kill us.” Thom’s voice was unsteady, and it rose in intensity and pitch as he spoke. “If I decide I want to die, I will go to the Royal Palace in Caemlyn, and I’ll pinch Morgase!” His long moustaches flailed. “Do not do that again!”

“It did not explode,” Mat said, frowning at the fireplace. He fished into the oiled-cloth roll on the other side of the log and pulled out a firework of the next larger size. “I wonder why there was no bang.”

“I do not care why there was no bang!” Dena shouted. “Listen to Thom! Do not do it again!”

Mat glanced at them and laughed. “Stop shaking, you two. There’s no need to be afraid. I know what is inside them, now. At least, I know what it looks like, but ... Don’t say it. I will not be cutting any more open, Thom. It is more fun to set them off, anyway.”

“I am not afraid, you mud-footed swineherd,” Thom said with elaborate dignity. “I am shaking with rage because I’m associating with a goat-brained lout who might kill the pair of us because he cannot think past his own idiotic whims!”

They kept insisting that Mat stop playing with the fireworks, and he allowed them to think they’d persuaded him, if only to get them to stop talking and ensure they helped with his search.

He let himself wander wherever the mood and the next turning took him, not looking for inns at all, and tossing a coin to decide whether to go in. For three days and nights he did this, and for three days and nights it rained without stopping, sometimes thundering, sometimes quiet, but always pouring down.

Thom’s cough grew worse, so he had to stop playing the flute and telling stories, and he would not carry his harp out in that weather; he insisted on going along, however, and men still talked to a gleeman. Mat’s luck with the dice seemed even better since he had begun this random wander, something that kept winning him incredulous stares from the other two no matter how often the dice came up in his favour. He made it a point to never stay in one inn or tavern long enough to win more than a few coins.

None of those they questioned had heard anything useful. Rumours of war with Illian. Rumours of invading Mayene. Rumours of invasion from Andor, of the Sea Folk shutting off trade, of Artur Hawkwing’s armies returning from the dead. Rumours the Dragon was coming. The men Mat gambled with were as gloomy about one rumour as the next; they seemed to him to hunt for the darkest rumours they could find and half believe them all. But he heard not a whisper that might lead him to Nynaeve or Elayne. Not one innkeeper had seen women matching their descriptions.

As they searched, Thom and Dena complained of bad dreams from the nights before, but not about Comar and his broken back, to Mat’s surprise. Thom spoke of Nynaeve and Elayne and some fellow with close-cropped white hair, wearing a coat with puffy, striped sleeves like Comar’s, laughing and weaving a net around them. Only sometimes it was Moiraine he was weaving the net for, Thom said, and sometimes he held a crystal sword instead, a sword that blazed like the sun as soon as he touched it. Even more disturbing, it was sometimes Rand who held the sword, Thom finished in hushed tones. When Dena claimed to have dreamed something very similar, Thom paled and fell silent.

Mat was sure it was all because they had not gotten enough sleep and urged them to go back to the inn, but he knew he would not stop. He had a wager to win, he told himself, and he meant to win this one if it killed him.


	26. Bait for the Net

CHAPTER 23: Bait for the Net

Gareth Bryne had always told her that waiting for a battle to start was nearly as trying as the battle itself. Elayne was learning the truth of that herself now. Part of her wished they could just get it over with, as Mair had said the other night. The rest of her knew that choosing the right time and place for the battle would be crucial to their hopes of victory.

She wasn’t the only one feeling the tension. Ilyena had grown restless and snappish lately, while Pedra had taken to pacing around and around their private hostel. Everyone was showing some sign of nerves, in fact, even normally placid women like Calindin and Theodrin. The latter of those was currently reading a book in the corner of Mother Guenna’s sitting room, while the former was off in the kitchen with Wynifred, helping their host to cook dinner.

Calindin wasn’t very good at cooking—she wasn’t very good at anything, Light help her—but she was a willing worker. If she hadn’t been born with the ability to channel, Elayne would have had few hopes for her prospects. Wynifred was another matter. Farm raised, she’d proven as adept at cooking as she was at stones.

It was just as well, for with so many people crammed into such a small house they had need of good cooks. It was just as well the Amyrlin had seen their expedition amply funded, too, for they had quickly eaten through their host’s larder. That was why Nynaeve, Emara and Ronelle were out shopping for groceries at the moment. And why it would fall to Elayne to put a stop to Mair and Mayam’s argument, if they didn’t come to their senses soon.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” Keestis said.

Elayne set down the needle and thread she hadn’t been using, and tried not to blush at having been caught eavesdropping. “I don’t mind. What is the question?” she said.

Keestis shifted in her seat. “I was just thinking. With you being the Daughter-Heir but also a future Aes Sedai, what will you do about the prohibition against marriage? Will you choose some other lady as your own heir, when you inherit the throne?”

Her thoughts flashed back to a certain encounter she’d had during her first visit to  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ , and this time there was no stopping the colour from infusing her cheeks.

“Sorry.”

“No, no. It is quite alright. I was simply ... Never mind.” Elayne took a deep breath to compose herself. “As it happens, I do not plan to bow to that particular tradition. I will marry a man of my choosing and have daughters of my own to inherit the throne.”

“The Aes Sedai might not approve.”

“I wasn’t planning to ask their permission,” Elayne said coolly.

Pinch-mouth Pedra ceased her incessant pacing long enough to frown down at Elayne. “The Tower’s will is not for any woman to ignore. Even the heir to a throne.”

Frowning back at her, Elayne made her voice as calm as she could. “The Tower does not rule Andor. We are allies. And I have no intention of letting anyone, ally or otherwise, tell me who I can and cannot sleep with.”

It wasn’t really Pedra she was upset with. She knew who she hoped to marry and she knew that the opposition they predicted would be very real. Pedra’s disapproval was just a small taste of what was to come. Even so, Elayne meant what she’d said. She would not be deterred.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I hope it works out for you. No matter what the Aes Sedai think,” Keestis said.

Elayne ignored Pedra’s sniff and gave her friend a gracious smile. “I appreciate the support.”

Just then, Dani leaned her head in the door and found Elayne with her eyes. “Sandar’s back. He says he has news for you. Apparently it’s something we’ll all want to hear.” Dani’s scowl suggested that she’d already asked what his news was and been denied.

“Men can be rather dramatic sometimes,” Elayne said as she rose from her chair. “I hope that whomever I marry proves rather less excitable than Master Sandar.”

Dani studied her critically. “Nah. You’d just walk all over him, like you do your brother. Someone a bit hot-headed would be good for you. Are you coming Theodrin?” Without waiting for a reply, or for the rightly-earned rebuke Elayne meant to give her, she jerked her head back out of the room.

Theodrin rose to follow, but Elayne, Keestis and Pedra all preceded her. They met up with Mair and Mayam on the way out, still sniping at each other over the wisdom—or lack thereof—of past dalliances. Little Shimoku was already out in the yard, questioning the thief-catcher. Sandar stood with his staff held upright before him, shaking his head stubbornly. Plainly Shimoku’s questioning had been to no avail.

Elayne frowned. “Where is Asseil?”

“Still up in her room, I think,” said Dani.

“She shouldn’t be left alone. The last thing we want is her telling tales, or letting certain people know where we are.”

“It’s a bit late for that, child,” a woman crowed.

Her gaze snapped to the shadowed alleyway, where a group of cloaked and hooded women could be seen approaching. Farther back marched perhaps a dozen armed men. Elayne didn’t need to see their faces to know, but a shaft of light still happened to touch the speaker’s smiling, ageless face. Chesmal Emry. Of the Black Ajah.

She couldn’t help but gasp. “They’ve found us!”  _ Asseil! May you burn in the Pit, you traitor! _ “Everyone get r—AHH!”

Elayne collapsed in a heap, holding her mouth in both hands. She’d never been struck so before. There was blood in her mouth and on her hands, and she very much feared her teeth had been loosened. She wasn’t even sure what had hit her, it had happened so fast. But then she saw Juilin Sandar whirl his staff around and try to smack Theodrin across the head with it. He almost succeeded, too, but a furious scowl from Dani stopped the staff dead in its tracks. Well, that and some skilled use of Air.  _ Sandar as well? Can no-one be trusted? _

An outthrust palm sent the traitor flying, though Dani did not, of course, actually touch him. “Fight! Strike these traitors down!” the Domani called.

To Elayne’s eyes, a storm of  _ saidar _ erupted in that little garden. With so many women embracing the Source, and so many flows being combined into so many different weaves, it was impossible for her to tell who was doing what. She tried to embrace the Source herself but found herself shielded. She didn’t give up though. She was stronger than any of Liandrin’s cronies, and even if she hadn’t been she wouldn’t have stopped trying to break through that shield.

She would need to do it soon though, for it wasn’t going well for her allies. Pedra was being driven backwards by Eldrith Jhondar, whose reputation for absent-mindedness looked quite unwarranted just then. And Shimoku was shielded already. As she watched, the Kaltori was jerked from her feet to fly towards the waiting hand of her countrywoman, Falion, who sneered down at her as she took hold of her throat.

“Pitiful. It wasn’t even a contest. Your ancestors would be ashamed to know they left such a weakling behind them,” said the Darkfriend.

Wide-eyed and helpless and struggling for breath, Shimoku still managed to grit out, “They’d be glad I didn’t turn out to be the Dark One’s chambermaid, like you.”

A slap across the face was her response, and a few kicks in the stomach once she’d been thrown to the ground.

The rest of the Accepted closed ranks, the better to defend each other from their older, more experienced foes. Shields slapped into placed around two of the weaker Black Sisters, Joiya and Amico; Elayne couldn’t tell who shielded them—Theodrin or Mair perhaps, who had the advantage over them in raw strength—but she could tell that it was a mistake. The other girls hadn’t seen combat before, not like she had.

“Don’t waste time or energy shielding them! Kill them instead!” she commanded as she struggled to her feet, still shielded.

Some of her companions gaped at her as if they’d just heard her name the Dark One. “It’s them or us! This is—” Elayne was silenced by another blow to the head, this time in the form of a baton of Air. She fell back to the ground.

“You should learn to stay down when you are beaten, yes? Me, I do not like having to remind you of your place.” The sound of that hateful voice, with its thick Taraboner accent made her shudder. From her prone position, she glared hatred at the speaker’s familiar, doll-like face. Liandrin.

“Elayne’s right! Don’t hold back!” said Dani.

“Who are you to be giving orders?” Marillin Gemalphin demanded to know. The skinny woman had not a fraction of Dani’s good looks, but she was much stronger than her in the Power. She brought that strength to bear now, with a most un-Aes Sedai scowl twisting her face into an even uglier form.

But Dani wasn’t alone, and there was one among them who could match Marillin for strength, if not for experience. The Black sister’s attack was deflected, and a vengeful bolt of lightning lanced towards her from the outstretched fingers of Ilyena Volnicoliev. The golden-haired Volsuni stood in the doorway of Mother Guenna’s house, breathing heavily from having sprinted to join the fight. Calindin stood just behind her, gaping out at the ruckus in the yard.

The lightning was parried before it could find Marillin’s flesh, but the arrival of reinforcements gave the Black Ajah pause for concern. Balls of fire flew from the hands of Marillin and another of the Black Ajah, Temaile, both of them aimed at the new arrivals. Ilyena threw herself aside and rolled nimbly back to her feet, safely out of range of the explosion. But Calindin was still gaping stupidly at what was happening outside. Elayne doubted she even saw it coming. The best that could be said was that her scream was a brief one.

“Prisoners! The Great Lord, he does want prisoners, yes?” Liandrin said angrily.

“And he will have them,” scrawny Berylla said calmly. “But he no need so many, and we no have time to play with these girls. Finish this quickly, before al’Meara do return.”

“It’s not just her you should be afraid of, Darkfriend scum,” Ilyena growled. She wove fire of her own, and sent it shooting out to crash against Berylla’s hastily woven shield. It held, but only just, and Ilyena threw blow after blow against it, her superior strength proving too much for the Darkfriend to handle.

The former Blue’s now-wide eyes sought out the former Red’s. “Defend me, fool!”

Liandrin put her nose in the air. “I’m busy.”

She was, in fact, busy helping Chesmal to overpower Theodrin, but whether she was so busy that she could not help her comrade, or whether the old enmity between the Blue and Red Ajahs still held even among those who had turned to the Shadow, Elayne could not say. Either way, the result was the same. Ilyena’s relentless attacks smashed through Berylla’s shield, leaving her defenceless. She had only a brief moment to recognise her fate before the Volsuni sent yet another fireball streaking her way. It struck Berylla square in the chest and sent her crashing down to the dirt with a black circle seared into her chest, and flames flickering all over her body. She screamed for longer than Calindin had, but her death was no less certain.

Most of the Black Ajah looked stunned by the death of one of their own, at the hands of a mere Accepted no less. Liandrin sneered, Falion laughed incredulously, and Temaile smiled an evil smile.

“Well, well, well. The kitten has claws,” the fox-faced woman purred. “I will enjoy pulling them out. Joiya! Help me with her.”

“Break this shield and I will,” said Joiya placidly.

Placid was the last word that could be used to describe the man who came barrelling out of the throng of soldiers—Warders in truth—who’d followed the Black Ajah down the alley. His sword was in his hand, and madness was written large across his face. Ilyena was his target, and the fact that she could kill him with little more than a thought didn’t seem to matter to him one bit.

_ Berylla’s Warder. They go mad for vengeance when their Aes Sedai dies _ .

Rianna Andomeran, who had been contesting with Keestis, tutted in annoyance. “Honestly. They are more trouble than they’re worth.” She flicked her wrist casually in the charging Warder’s direction, and a red gash appeared across his throat. Blood gushed out and his knees gave way, but he kept on moving towards Ilyena, crawling on hands and knees, dragging himself along on his belly, mindlessly intent on cutting her down. Even his last breath was spent in pursuit of that mad, mindless vengeance.

By then Theodrin had been taken down, and an angry-looking Amico Nagoyin was stalking over to her. “Finally! You’ll pay for that, girl, mark my words,” she said to the unconscious Domani, who obviously hadn’t released the shield as Elayne had ordered.

Joiya was still shielded, too, and unable to assist Temaile, who was still fighting Ilyena. “Ispan, stop loitering over there and link with me!” Temaile demanded. Ispan complied, and together they pushed Ilyena back until she was shoulder to shoulder with Dani and Mair.

_ We’re losing _ , Elayne thought despairingly. Pedra was down, and Mayam, who had been matching Asne stroke for stroke, was sweating heavily now. With Theodrin defeated, Liandrin and Chesmal were free to turn their attention to other targets. As she watched, they helped Rianna drive Keestis to her knees.  _ Where are you, Nynaeve? _

Her silent call for help was answered, but the answering brought only more despair.

“Hold on everyone, we’re here,” Wynifred called. Despite her wide-open eyes and her even paler than usual face, the nimbus of  _ saidar _ surrounded her as she stepped out of the smouldering doorway where Calindin had died.

“Behind you,” Elayne tried to shout, but her words were made nonsense by the drubbing she’d taken. She could only watch as Asseil stepped out behind the brave but oblivious Wynifred.

The reprieve allowed Keestis to stagger back to her feet. Wynifred stepped in front of her and spun a shield of Air to protect them both from the Black Ajah’s assault.

Liandrin growled in disgust. “The Great Lord take me! How many Accepted did that fool Sanche send? Did she think to overwhelm us with numbers? We are Aes Sedai. They are Accepted. We are lions and they are mice!”

“Keeping Elayne shielded is taxing enough,” Jeaine Caide. “I do not want to have to shield any more of them.”

Liandrin nodded. “Berylla, she may have been right. We don’t need all of them. Get rid of the chaff.”

At her word, Asseil reached out towards Keestis and Wynifred’s necks. “Don’t you hurt them!” Elayne managed to scream, only for her mouth to drop open when Asseil grasped them each by the collar and shoved them out of the way of the bolt of lightning that Liandrin sent streaking their way.

Keestis and Wynifred landed on the ground nearby but Asseil landed much farther back. Inside the house, in fact, right at the feet of a shocked Mother Guenna, whose lined face she stared sightlessly up at, smoke rising from the black stain on her chest. Tears stung Elayne’s eyes. She wouldn’t even get the chance to apologise to Asseil for her unjust suspicions.

Ilyena screamed then, a scream of outrage that soon became a scream of pain. The linked Darkfriends had managed to shield her, and Temaile had switched the intent of her weaving from battle to torture. Distracted by her pillow-friend’s pain, Dani didn’t see Marillin’s blow coming. She hit the ground face first and lay so still that Elayne feared she, too, was dead. Ilyena’s screams grew even louder. Mair made a desperate bid to turn things around by trying to break the shields that held Ilyena and Elayne, but she was badly outnumbered by then. The result was inevitable. The victorious sisters of the Black Ajah soon tossed her to the ground beside Mayam and Keestis.

Wynifred, last to join the group, last to join the fight, the freshest among them, stood alone now. Her dark eyes darted about as she tried to think of a tactic that might win them this day. Elayne could see none.

“Surrender,” she said dully. It was the only option now. They would just have to hope that Nynaeve could save them.

“I ... If you think it best, Elayne. I suppose there’s no choice,” Wynifred said fearfully. She released the source and raised her hands in the air.

“Surrender? Didn’t you listen? We don’t need any more prisoners,” said Chesmal. A cruel smile cracked the handsome mask of her face. She wove Fire, Earth and Water together with the swift precision of long practice and laid her weave upon Wynifred, who blinked once and then collapsed atop the vegetable patch like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

Elayne’s vision swam as she stared at her friend’s face, frozen now in surprise. Her eyes, always searching for answers, searched the clouds now instead of books, but whatever wisdom they might find there was beyond Elayne’s knowing.

Someone grabbed her by the hair and jerked her gaze away from Wynifred’s body. “Such presumptuousness,” Chesmal sneered. “Did you really think a gaggle of Accepted could defeat full Aes Sedai? Defeat me? I have put two Amyrlin Seat’s in their graves, girl. You are nothing to me.”

It would have been wise to stay silent then, to lower her head the way her vanquished companions were, but Elayne’s emotions were too raw. “Such presumptuousness,” she sneered back. “A Darkfriend asking for respect is like a worm asking to fly.”

She saw the blow coming that time. For what little that was worth.

* * *

From the corner of her eye, Nynaeve thought she glimpsed a tall man with red hair, in a swirling brown cloak, well down the sunlit street, but as she turned to peer from under the wide brim of the blue straw hat Ailhuin had given her, an ox-drawn wagon was already lumbering between them. When it lurched on, the man was nowhere to be seen.  _ It couldn’t be Rand. Just because I keep dreaming about him does not mean he is going to come all the way to Tear _ .

One of the barefoot men hurrying past, with the sickle-shaped tails of a dozen large fish sticking up from the basket on his back, suddenly tripped, catapulting silver-scaled fish over his head as he fell. He landed on hands and knees in the mud, staring at the fish that had come out of his basket. Every one of the long, sleek shapes stood upright, stuck nose down in the mud, forming a neat circle. Even a few passersby gaped at that. Slowly the man got to his feet, apparently unaware of the mud on him. Unslinging his basket, he began gathering the fish back into it, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Nynaeve blinked, but her business was with this cow-faced brigand, facing her in the doorway of his shop with bloody cuts of meat hanging from hooks behind him. She gave her braid a tug and fixed the fellow with her eye.

“Very well,” she said sharply, “I will take it, but if this is what you charge for so poor a cut, you’ll not have more business from me.”

He shrugged placidly as he took her coins, then wrapped the fatty mutton roast in a cloth she produced from the basket on her arm. She glared at him as she put the wrapped meat into the basket, but that did not affect him.

She whirled to stalk away—and nearly fell. She was still not used to these clogs; they kept sticking in the mud, and she could not see how the folk who wore them managed. She hoped this sunshine dried the ground soon, but she had a feeling that the mud was more or less permanent in the Maule.

Stepping gingerly, she started back toward Ailhuin’s house, muttering under her breath. The prices were outrageous for everything, the quality inevitably poor, and almost no-one seemed to care, not the people buying or those selling. It was a relief to pass a woman shouting at a shopkeeper, waving a bruised reddish-yellow fruit—Nynaeve did not know what; they had a good many fruits and vegetables she had never heard of, here—in each hand and calling for everyone to see what refuse the man sold, but the shopkeeper only stared at her wearily, not even bothering to argue back.

There was some excuse for the prices, she knew—Elayne had explained all about the grain being eaten by rats in the granaries because no-one in Cairhien could buy, and how big the Cairhienin grain trade had become since the Aiel War—but nothing excused the way everyone seemed ready to lie down and die. She had seen hail ruin food crops in the Theren, and grasshoppers eat them and blacktongue kill the sheep and redspot wither the tabac so there was nothing to sell when the merchants came down from Baerlon. She could remember two years in a row when there had been little to eat except turnip soup and old barley, and hunters had been lucky to bring home a scrawny rabbit, but Theren folk picked themselves up when they were knocked down and went back to work. These people had had only one bad year, and their fisheries and their other trade seemed to be flourishing. She had no patience with them. The trouble was, she knew she should have a little patience. They were odd people with odd ways, and things she took for cringing, they seemed to see as a matter of course, even Ailhuin and Sandar. She should be able to summon up just a little patience.

_ It is all those bad dreams _ , she told herself.  _ I cannot understand what they mean, and now Elayne and I are having them, too, and I do not know what that means either, and Sandar won’t say anything except that he is still looking, and I am so frustrated I ... I could just spit! _ She jerked her braid so hard it hurt. At least she had been able to convince Elayne not to use the  _ ter’angreal _ again, to put the thing back in her pouch when she went to sleep instead of wearing it next to her skin always. If the Black Ajah was in  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ ... She did not want to think about that possibility.  _ We will find them! _

“I will bring them down,” she muttered. “Trying to sell me like a sheep! Hunting me like an animal! I am the hunter this time, not the rabbit! That Moiraine! If she had never come to Emond’s Field, I could have taught Egwene enough. And Rand ... I could have ... I could have done something.” That she knew neither was true did not help; it made it worse. She hated Moiraine almost as much as she hated Liandrin and the Black Ajah, maybe as much as she hated the Seanchan.

She rounded a corner, and Juilin Sandar had to leap out of her way to keep from being trampled. Even used to them as he was, he nearly tripped over his own clogs, only his staff saving him from falling on his face in the mud. That pale, ridged wood was called bamboo, she had learned, and it was stronger than it looked.

“Mistress—uh—Mistress Maryim,” Sandar said, regaining his balance. “I was ... looking for you.” He flashed her a nervous smile. “Are you angry? Why are you frowning at me that way?”

She smoothed her forehead. “I was not frowning at you, Master Sandar. The butcher ... It does not matter. Why are you looking for me?” Her breath caught. “Have you found them?”

He looked around as if he suspected the passersby of trying to listen. “Yes. Yes, you must come back with me. The others are waiting. The others. And Mother Guenna.”

“Why are you so nervous? You did not let them discover your interest?” she said sharply. “What has frightened you?”

“No! No, mistress. I—I did not reveal myself.” His eyes darted again, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a breathy, urgent whisper. “These women you seek, they are in the Stone! Guests of a High Lord! The High Lord Samon! Why did you call them thieves? The High Lord Samon!” he almost squeaked. There was sweat on his face.

_ Inside the Stone! With a High Lord! Light, how do we reach them now? _ She suppressed her impatience with an effort. “Be easy,” she said soothingly. “Be at ease, Master Sandar. We can explain everything to your satisfaction.”  _ I hope we can. Light, if he goes running to the Stone to tell this High Lord we are searching for them ... _ “Come with me to Mother Guenna’s house. We will explain it all to you. Truly. Come.”

He gave a short, uneasy nod, and walked alongside her, keeping his pace to what she could manage with the clogs. He looked as if he wanted to run.

At the healer’s house, she hurried around to the back. No-one ever used the front door, that she had seen, not even Mother Guenna herself. Sandar halted at the mouth of the alley to scrape mud from his clogs with the butt of his staff, but she hurried on, only to come to a sudden halt when she saw what awaited her.

Ailhuin Guenna was sitting in one of her high-backed chairs pulled out into the garden, her arms at her sides. The grey-haired woman’s eyes were bulging with anger and fear, and she struggled furiously without moving a muscle. Nynaeve did not need to sense the subtle weaving of Air to know what had happened.  _ Light, they’ve found us! Burn you, Sandar! _

Rage flooded her, washed away the walls inside that usually kept her from the Power, and as the basket fell from her hands, she was a white blossom on a blackthorn bush, opening to embrace  _ saidar _ , opening ... It was as if she had run into another wall, a wall of clear glass; she could feel the True Source, but the wall stopped everything except the ache to be filled with the One Power.

The basket hit the ground, and as it bounced, Liandrin stepped out of the blackened ruins of Ailhuin’s doorway, followed by a black-haired woman with a white streak above her left ear. They wore long, colourful silk dresses cut to bare their shoulders, and the glow of  _ saidar _ surrounded them.

Liandrin smoothed her red dress and smiled with that pouting rosebud mouth. Her doll’s face was filled with amusement. “You see, do you not, wilder,” she began, “you have no—”

Nynaeve hit her in the mouth as hard as she could.  _ Light, I have to get away _ . She backhanded Rianna so hard the black-haired woman fell on her silk-covered rump with a grunt.  _ They must have the others, but if I can make it out of the alley, if I can get far enough away they can’t shield me, I can do something _ . She pushed Liandrin hard, shoving her away.  _ Just let me escape their shielding, and I’ll ... _

Blows hit her from every side, like fists and sticks, pummelling her. Neither Liandrin, blood trickling from a corner of her now-grim mouth, nor Rianna, her hair as disarrayed as her green dress, lifted a hand. Nynaeve could feel the flows of Air weaving about her as well as she could feel the blows themselves. She still struggled to reach the alley, but she realized that she was on her knees, now, and the unseen blows would not stop, invisible sticks and fists striking at her back and her stomach, her head and her hips, her shoulders, her breasts, her legs, her head. Groaning, she fell onto her side and curled into a ball, trying to protect herself.  _ Oh, Light, I tried. Elayne! I tried! I will not cry out! Burn you, you can beat me to death, but I won’t cry! _

The blows stopped, but Nynaeve could not stop quivering. She felt bruised and battered from crown to toe.

Liandrin crouched beside her, arms around her knees, silk rustling against silk. She had wiped the blood away from her mouth. Her dark eyes were hard, and there was no amusement on her face now. “Perhaps you are too stupid to know when you are defeated, wilder. You must learn to submit. You  _ will _ learn to submit.”

Nynaeve shivered and reached for  _ saidar _ again. It was not that she had any real hope, but she had to do something. Forcing through her pain, she reached out ... and struck that invisible shield. Liandrin did have amusement back in her eyes, now, the grim mirth of a nasty child who pulls the wings off flies.

“We have no use for this one, at least,” Rianna said, standing beside Ailhuin. “I will stop her heart.” Ailhuin’s eyes nearly came out of her head.

“No!” Liandrin’s short, honey-coloured braids swung as her head snapped around. “Always you kill too quickly, and only the Great Lord can make use of the dead.” She smiled at the woman held to the chair by invisible bonds. “You saw the soldiers who came with us, old woman. You know who waits for us in the Stone. The High Lord Samon, he will not be pleased if you speak of what happened inside your house today. If you hold your tongue, you will live, perhaps to serve him again one day. If you speak, you will serve only the Great Lord of the Dark, from beyond the grave. Which do you choose?”

Suddenly Ailhuin could move her head. She shook her grey curls, working her mouth. “I ... will hold my tongue,” she said dejectedly, then gave Nynaeve an embarrassed, shamed look. “If I speak, what good will it do? A High Lord could have my head by raising an eyebrow. What good can I do you, girl? What good?”

“It is alright,” Nynaeve said wearily.  _ Who could she tell? All she could do is die _ . “I know you would help if you could.” Rianna threw back her head and laughed. Ailhuin slumped, released completely, but she only sat there, staring at her hands in her lap.

Between them, Liandrin and Rianna pulled Nynaeve to her feet and pushed her toward the front of the house. “You give us any trouble,” the black-haired woman said in a hard voice, “and I will make you peel off your own skin and dance in your bones.”

Nynaeve almost laughed.  _ What trouble could I give? _ She was shielded from the True Source. Her bruises ached so much she could barely stand. Anything she might do, they could handle like a child’s tantrum.  _ But my bruises will heal, burn you, and you’ll make a slip yet! And when you do ... _ There were others at the front of the house now, standing around a train of expensive looking coaches, the last of which was just now drawing up. Two big soldiers in rimmed, round helmets and shiny breastplates over those puffy-sleeved red coats held open the doors to one of the carriages. The two men had sweat on their faces, and their dark eyes rolled as if they were as afraid as she. Amico Nagoyin was there, slender and pretty with her long neck and pale skin, looking as innocent as a girl gathering flowers. Joiya Byir had a friendly face despite that smooth-cheeked calm of a woman who had worked long with the Power, almost a grandmother’s face in its welcoming appearance, though her age had put no touch of grey in her dark hair, any more than it had wrinkled her skin. Her grey eyes looked more like those of the stepmother in the stories, the one who murdered the children of her husband’s first wife. Both women shone with the Power.

Elayne sat between the two Black sisters, with a bruised eye and a swollen cheek and a split lip, one sleeve of her dress torn halfway off. “I am sorry, Nynaeve,” she said thickly, as if her jaw hurt. “We never saw them until it was too late.”

“What did you do to her?” Nynaeve demanded. “Burn you, what—!” Something unseen struck her across the mouth hard enough to make her eyes go blank for a moment.

“Now, now,” Joiya Byir said with a smile that her eyes belied. “I will not stand for demands, or bad language.” She sounded like a grandmother, too. “You speak when you are spoken to.”

Nynaeve let herself be pushed out into the street. She made them push her; it was a small way of fighting back, refusing to cooperate, but it was all she had at the moment.

There were few people in the muddy street, as if everyone had decided it was much better to be somewhere else, and those few scurried by on the other side without a glance at the shiny, black-lacquered coaches standing behind teams of six matched whites with tall white plumes on their bridles. A coachman dressed like the soldiers, but without armour or sword, sat on the seat. There was an unfamiliar sigil painted on the coaches. A silver-gauntleted fist clutching jagged lightning bolts.

She supposed it was High Lord Samon’s sign— _ A Darkfriend, he must be, if he deals with the Black Ajah. The Light burn him! _ —but she was more interested in the man who dropped to his knees in the mud. “Burn you, Sandar, why—?” She jumped as something that felt like a stick of wood struck her across the shoulders.

Joiya Byir smiled chidingly and waggled a finger. “You will be respectful, child. Or you might lose that tongue.”

Liandrin laughed. Tangling a hand in Sandar’s black hair, she wrenched his head back. He stared up at her with the eyes of a faithful hound—or of a cur expecting a kick. “Do not be too hard on this man.” She even made “man” sound like “dog”. “He had to be ... persuaded ... to serve. But I am very good at persuading, no?” She laughed again.

Sandar turned a confused stare on Nynaeve. “I had to do it, Mistress Maryim. I ... had to.” Liandrin twisted his hair, and his eyes went back to her, the anxious hound’s once more.

_ Light! Nynaeve thought. What did they do to him? What are they going to do to us? _

She was bundled roughly into the lead coach with Elayne, where she saw Theodrin lying unconscious on the floor. Liandrin and Rianna climbed in after her and took the seat facing forward. The glow of  _ saidar _ still surrounded them. As soon as Nynaeve sat down, flows of Air bound the three of them like layers of tightly wrapped blankets. The coach lurched into motion, swaying hard in the mud despite its leather springs.

“If you have hurt her any of my people ...”  _ Light, I can see they’ve hurt them. Why don’t I say what I mean? _ But it was almost as hard to force the words out as it would have been to lift a hand. “If you have killed any of them, I won’t rest till you are all hunted down like wild dogs.”

Rianna glared, but Liandrin only sniffed. “Do not be a complete fool, wilder. You are in position to be making threats. It is lucky for you that you are wanted alive. Dead bait will catch nothing.”

_ Bait? For what? For who? _ “You are the fool, Liandrin! Do you think we are here alone? That the Amyrlin would send only Accepted to bring you to justice? We  _ are _ bait, Liandrin. And you have walked into the trap like a fat grouse.”

“Do not tell her that!” Elayne said sharply, and Nynaeve blinked before she realized Elayne was helping her fabrication. “If you let your anger get the best of you, you will tell them what they must not hear. They must take us inside the Stone. They must—”

“Be quiet!” Nynaeve snapped. “You are letting your tongue run away with you!” Elayne managed to look abashed behind her bruises.  _ Let them chew on that _ , Nynaeve thought.

But Liandrin only smiled. “Once your time as bait is done, you will tell us everything. You will want to. They say you will be very strong one day, but I will make sure you will always obey me, even before the Great Master Be’lal works his plans for you. He is sending for Myrddraal. Thirteen of them.” Those rosebud lips laughed the final words.

Nynaeve felt her stomach twist. One of the Forsaken! Her brain numbed with shock.  _ The Dark One and all the Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul, bound by the Creator in the moment of creation _ . But the catechism did not help; she knew too well how much of it was false. Then the rest of it came home to her. Thirteen Myrddraal. And thirteen sisters of the Black Ajah. She heard Elayne screaming before she realized she was screaming herself, jerking uselessly in those invisible bonds of Air. It was impossible to say which was louder, their despairing screams, or the laughter from Liandrin and the Black Ajah.


	27. In the Hands of the Shadow

CHAPTER 24: In the Hands of the Shadow

The Black Ajah did not move in secret, here in the Stone of Tear. They wore their Great Serpent rings openly and stared down their noses at the Defenders of the Stone who escorted them through the twisting corridors of the famed fortress. The traditional Tairen enmity towards channelers could be seen on the men’s hard faces and in the glances they shot the Black Sisters when they thought none were looking, but that enmity weighed poorly against the command of a High Lord.

Elayne wondered if they would listen to her if she shouted out that the High Lord they served was a Forsaken in disguise. She doubted it, but there was at least a slim hope. She kept silent even so. The Defenders would be slaughtered if they tried to do anything to Liandrin’s circle.

The Stone of Tear stretched upwards for perhaps twenty levels, but it was downwards that she and her surviving friends were escorted. Or dragged, in some cases. Being bruised from head to toe wasn’t nearly enough to get Nynaeve to stop struggling. While Liandrin and the others maintained the shields on their prisoners, it fell to their Warders to restrain them physically. Having grown tired of her constant yanking away from them or dragging her heels on the tiles, two of them had picked her up by the hands and feet and were carry her dangling in the air between them.

Elayne wished she would calm down. Struggle was pointless just then. They would have to be quiet, watch, wait, and seize their moment when it came. If it came.  _ Silence, coward! It  _ will _ come. It must. The Shadow cannot win now that the Dragon has been Reborn _ .

Perhaps their own might yet come to their rescue. Nynaeve had been ambushed not long after the fight outside Mother Guenna’s house, but Emara and Ronelle had not yet returned when they departed for the Stone. Elayne had less faith in their ability to stage a rescue than she did Nynaeve’s, but it was still a hope to which she could cling.

It was a hope that grew as thin as the air of the Stone’s dungeon when she saw the man awaiting them down there. It wasn’t that he was of particularly fearsome visage. If anything, he was disturbingly normal looking. Just a tall, slender, neatly attired man. Dark eyes, white hair, olive skin. The kind of man who wouldn’t have looked out of place in any nation. Yet the eyes that flickered over Elayne and Liandrin and their companions so briefly were as devoid of deference for the Aes Sedai as they were of compassion for their battered captives. She’d looked on insects with more interest than this man did the gathering of people before him. She wasn’t surprised when proud Liandrin and her fellow traitors curtsied before him, and she didn’t need to hear them speak his name again to know who he was.  _ Be’lal _ .

“Are al’Thor’s women intact?” he said, not even attempting to mimic a Tairen accent. Their escort of Defenders remained blank-faced, but surely they must wonder at that. Elayne’s hopes of catching one’s eyes and winning an ally were in vain, and were soon ended when Marillin roughly pushed her forward.

Liandrin snapped her fingers and pointed at the ground near Be’lal’s feet. As Nynaeve was dumped where she’d pointed, she faced the Forsaken and said, “These two, they are the ones you seek, Great Master. Nynaeve, she is the darker of the two, and the stronger, yes?”

Be’lal didn’t even look at the woman described. “For your sake, I hope those injuries are not fatal,” he told Liandrin. “ ‘Al’Thor’ was always weak-willed. His friends can be used against him. While they are alive.”

Like Elayne, Nynaeve had more important things to worry about than being inaccurately labelled as “Rand’s woman”. “What do you want with us? What are you planning to do?” she demanded, managing to push herself up as far as her hands and knees.

The ever so slight shake of his head spoke of Be’lal’s scorn and the fact that he had heard her, but he didn’t deign to respond. “Ensure that those two remain intact until I say otherwise. Heal them if need be. The rest can be Turned. Or killed if they resist. It matters not.”

His judgement pronounced, he walked past them all, utterly confident that a path would be cleared for him through the crowded corridor and that the sentence he’d delivered would be carried out. The former proved an accurate prediction, and as the Defenders fell in behind the false High Lord, Elayne came to fear that the latter prediction would prove just as sound. No-one spoke until Be’lal turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

It was almost a relief to hear so many of the Black Ajah let out pent up breaths once he was gone. While Ispan smoothed her dress, and Liandrin scowled at nothing, Jeaine Caide muttered to herself. “Not a word of thanks. He did not even ask where Berylla was.”

“You expected the Shadow to be friendly?” Mair sneered.

Jeaine was a good-looking woman, and the clothes she wore flattered her figure. Elayne doubted anyone would be crazy enough to think her attractive though, not if they could see the look she gave Mair just then. “You’re not very bright, are you, girl?” Jeaine said quietly.

Temaile’s smile sharpened her already fox-like features. “Perhaps she thinks avoiding prompt execution is a mercy. She will soon learn otherwise.”

Liandrin turned her dissatisfaction their way. “Fools, they are in great supply, yes? If you must have your fun, then have it, but do not waste anything that might be useful to us, or Be’lal, he will not be the worst thing you have to deal with.”

Elayne watched her stalk off.  _ She chafes under his command. She would chafe under anyone’s command, but especially a man’s. Her arrogance is her weakness. But how to use it against her? _

She daydreamed of Liandrin and Be’lal killing each other while she and her friends watched from afar. It was a pleasant thought; one that almost distracted her from the looks Temaile and the rest of the Darkfriends were giving their captives. When one of the Warder’s opened a thick wooden door to allow two others to carry the still-unconscious Dani and Theodrin inside, and she got a good look at the prison that awaited them, her daydream became a nightmare.

The room was large and windowless, lit only by torches held in sconces on the unadorned stone walls. There was no order to it, only chaos and cruelty. There were tables and chairs, but they stood alone instead of being arrayed together as was normal. Some of the chairs had holes cut into the seats. All of them had metal rings attached to them. The chains that lay nearby made plain their purpose. On the tables were piled a year’s nightmares worth of cutting, prying, pulling, breaking,  _ pain-making _ instruments. Steel-barred cages of various sizes could be seen, along with a large array of wooden stocks. There were already two women in those last, naked women, bent over at an uncomfortable angle. She knew them well.

“You evil witches! What did you do to them?” Nynaeve shouted, at the sight of Emara and Ronelle. Rianna answered by slapping her across the face.

Ronelle sighed heavily. “They got you as well. I’d hoped ...” Her head fell, hiding her face behind her yellow locks, though even they did not hang so low as her pendulous breasts. Girlish Emara squeezed her eyes shut but the tears managed to leak out anyway.

Elayne’s heart was racing, and not from the sight of her friends’ flesh. “What are you going to do to us?” she asked, ashamed of how squeaky her voice sounded.

Amico laughed. “It’s a little thing called torture. If you haven’t heard of it ... well, let’s just say you are in for quite the treat,” she said mockingly.

She was proud of how bravely her friends faced their fate. A sob might have escaped Shimoku, Mayam might be trembling and Pedra might be trying to shrink in on herself, but no-one screamed or begged. They at least denied the Black Ajah that much satisfaction. Elayne herself was afraid to speak, lest she find herself unable to live up to her friends’ examples.

“Must we? Couldn’t we just lock them in a cell?” Ispan complained.

“Berylla is dead! Or did you not notice?” Falion snapped. Outraged as she sounded, one might almost have forgotten how she’d laughed when Ilyena struck the woman down. “That must be answered for. Besides, these Accepted had the nerve to think they could defeat us. Now let them see what that has earned them. And speaking of ... Ogrin! Strip them and put them in the stocks! But leave them their rings. They earned those as well!”

Asne chuckled. “Help him. All of you,” she told her Warders.

“You must remain in order to help with the shields, Ispan, but we won’t need you for more than that,” Marillin said.

“I’ll get myself a comfortable chair then. And pick up the whip and the rod while I’m out,” said Ispan.

Marillin nodded. “Yes. Those will certainly help.”

“In more ways than one!” crowed Temaile.

As much as she’d tried to remain calm and collected, Elayne couldn’t help but fight when the Warders came for her. “Don’t touch me! How dare you? Let go!” she cried, but the men ignored her. Hard, male faces surrounded her. Hard hands touched her body, while more of the same held knives towards her. She shuddered, then tried to hide it by struggling against their grips. It accomplished nothing, of course, for every one of them was a Warder trained and bonded, and far stronger than she was. They reduced her clothes to rags and left her standing there naked before the mocking eyes of her enemies and the pitying eyes of her friends. Elayne pressed her knees together and tried to crouch down to hide her nakedness, but the Warders wouldn’t let her do that either. She was dragged to the stocks and forced over an unoccupied one. Only when the upper hinge was brought down and her head and hands were bound in place did the men remove their hands from her body.

The relief she felt was short-lived, for fear now flooded Elayne’s mind.  _ They’re going to rape me! They’re going to rape me! They can see everything, and I can’t move, and they’re going to rape me! _ There were tears on her cheeks but she was past trying to hide her fear.  _ This can’t be happening. Not to me. Not like this. Where is Rand? It was supposed to me him ... _

Unable to see what was going on behind her, Elayne moved her hips in an effort to dodge what she feared was coming her way. The effort only made her captors laugh.

“That eager, are you? I can’t say I’m surprised. I bet every man in the Queen’s Guards has fucked that dirty little cunt of yours, haven’t they?” Asne said, grinning widely.

She was directing her Warders to strip the rest of the captured Accepted and place them in stocks as well. Most of the Warders present belonged to her and the other Green, Jeaine. A lot of the Black Ajah either didn’t have any Warders or had left theirs behind when they’d fled Tar Valon. Elayne saw a hint of why when the shame-faced man who cut Mayam’s dress from her whispered an apology. He still cut it from her, exposing her dark flesh to anyone who cared to look, but at least he knew what he was doing was wrong. Asne had been watching carefully. When she noticed the man, a fellow Saldaean and presumably one of hers, she pointed at him.

“She stands too tall. A fist to the stomach will help with that. Punch her, Belar,” she commanded.

The Warder’s eyes glazed over and his fist rammed into Mayam’s flat belly, forcing a loud gasp of pain from her. She was still wheezing and trying to catch her breath when he locked her into the stocks. After a minute, Belar blinked his eyes back into focus. Sudden fury crossed his face, but he stood his post and his glare was directing down at the stone floor rather than at Asne.

The Black Ajah had them all stripped and bound, uncaring of their struggles and protests. Muscular Mair’s efforts to resist were as ineffective as those of soft-bodied Shimoku. Keestis and Ilyena were among the last to be stripped, and both did a better job of hiding their distress than Elayne had. She could see them trembling, and hands drifted over to hide their private parts from the men and women who eyed the two fair-haired beauties, but they refused to scream or cringe.

Pedra took it particularly hard. Though she remained silent, retreating into herself while they stripped her, the touch of a man’s hands to her naked flesh brought her to a sudden sobbing panic. She and Elayne had never been close, but a wave of total pity swept through her when she saw yellow fluid pouring down the other woman’s skinny legs. The Warders cursed and the Aes Sedai sniffed scornfully as a still-pissing Pedra was dragged by the hand to her waiting stock.

Dani and Theodrin were stripped and locked in place, too, and no matter that they were both incapable of word or action just then. There was blood clotting in Dani’s thick black hair, and she was paler than she should be. Even so, Elayne couldn’t begin to say whether Healing would have been a mercy or a cruelty just then.

Nynaeve, of course, did not go quietly.

“You’ll pay for this, every last one of you,” she growled. It took two Warders to hold her, while a third cut the clothes from her body. She was a beautiful woman, as Elayne well knew, but the bruises and welts that her beatings had left on her body did much to disguise that. Torn between fury at their enemies, and cringing embarrassment at being exposed to them, she did a mad little dance as she was dragged to the stocks, swapping between kicking out at the Warders, and drawing her knees up to hide her nudity. It was all for nothing. She, too, was soon locked in place, her hips outthrust, ready to be seized by whoever chose to take her.

_ Light help us _ , Elayne prayed. She knew from the other women’s rapid breathing that they felt as helpless and afraid as she did. They were held in a circle, facing each other, and all around the outer edge of that circle paced hard-faced men and harder-faced women. The Accepteds’ wide eyes followed them on their progress, and each time they passed beyond view, the thought that it would be them to be assaulted could be seen on their terrified faces. Relief replaced terror when the pacing captors moved once again into view. It was to be a short relief.

“Useless males. Do you need instruction in even this?” Jeaine sneered. “Take off your clothes. Let them get a good look at what is coming their way.”

Asne laughed. “Good idea. You four do the same.”

The Warders stopped their pacing and began to undress, revealing hard bodies and, in many cases, hard cocks. The stiff rods poked out from their crotches, thick and thin, long and short, crooked and straight, all in various shades. Pedra had already squeezed her eyes shut determinedly, looking as though she meant to keep them that way no matter what. Elayne squeezed her eyes shut as well, still somehow embarrassed by the sight of the men’s naked parts. They had been getting an eyeful of the girls’ naked bodies, and had obviously liked what they’d seen. Her chin wobbled. She didn’t want this.

A creaking sound made her peek at the door, but any hope of rescue was short-lived. It was just Ispan and Eldrith returning with the items they’d fetched. They handed two of those items over to Marillin before taking their chairs off to the side of the dungeon, where they sat looking bored and chatting quietly.

Elayne recognised the things in Marillin’s hands. They were two of the stolen  _ ter’angreal _ that the Amyrlin had ordered them to recover. One was a slightly bent black rod, the other a supple whip of unnaturally metallic sheen. The descriptions she’d studied so diligently flashed across her mind.  _ The rod is used to stun or kill from afar. The whip temporarily drains the strength of any channeler who is struck with it _ .

“Let me,” said Temaile, smiling eagerly at the whip. Marillin glanced at Dani and hesitated, but in the end she gave the whip over to Temaile’s keeping.

“Blood and ashes,” Keestis cursed softy. Her hands clenched into helpless fists.

“I guess it’s no secret what’s coming now,” Temaile said, grinning excitedly. While most of the others still wore the colours of their supposed Ajahs, she had cast off her greys in favour of a high-necked black dress, one better suited to her true allegiance. “But don’t worry, girls. I’ll have some surprises for you later. For now, best stick out those soft bottoms and get yourself ready.” She unfolded the whip and took a few experimental swings. Even striking only air, it made a shockingly loud noise. Elayne couldn’t help but flinch.

The next crack of the whip was followed by a loud scream. Ronelle’s curves and folds shook as she tried in vain to avoid the next blow. A livid red welt could already be seen on her wide bottom, and another joined it even as Elayne watched.

“Stop it! Leave her alone!” Emara called. Her protests and Ronelle’s screams only seemed to excite Temaile more.

“Why would I do that? Nynaeve and Elayne must live, but the rest of you are worthless. I could whip her until her heart gives out, or just cut her throat and feed her to the dogs, and there would be nothing to stop me.”

“Please don’t!” Emara said as the whip continued to crack against Ronelle’s back and buttocks.

Temaile smirked cruelly. “What is it worth to you for me to stop? Will you swear yourself to the Great Lord of the Dark?”

“Don’t do it, Emara!” Ronelle said bravely, despite the tears on her cheeks.

“I ... No. Not that. Never that, burn you!”

“So proud! I think I can make you swallow that pride though. And perhaps something else.” She stopped her whipping and looked about the room. “It’s times like this that I think I should bond a Warder of my own,” she muttered, before turned to Jeaine. “Can I borrow two of yours for a moment?”

“Certainly not! They do what I tell them. And only what I tell them.”

“Hmm? Oh alright, Wain. Go have your fun,” Ispan said. Her short, dark-skinned Warder, who’d been stationed at her side throughout, began tugging at his clothes eagerly.

“My Dalnos can help as well,” Asne said.

The yellow-haired man who was staring lasciviously at Nynaeve’s crotch looked up. “Wouldn’t you rather I poked this one, Asne Sedai? She’s far more full of herself than that little whiner.” He looked down again. “And she has a nicer ass,” he added in a lower voice. Nynaeve’s face writhed with revulsion.

“Maybe later. For now, go unbind the Illianer.”

Grumbling, Dalnos went to help Wain do just that. In the circumstances, Emara wasn’t nearly as eager to be freed as might have been expected.

“W-what are you planning, t-traitor?” she asked Temaile.

“Just a little test of your love for your pillow-friend,” the Black sister purred. “I’m going to give you some orders. Each time you refuse to obey, she gets the whip. Once to start with, twice on the second refusal, three times for the third. We’ll keep going until you comply or she dies. Now doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“Don’t listen to her, Emara. I can take it,” Ronelle said. Her brave words didn’t stop her from screaming when the whip once more cracked across her back.

“Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Get down on your knees and take those big worms in your hands, girl.”

“I ... Just don’t hurt her,” Emara sighed. Red-faced, she knelt on the hard stone floor before the two naked men, one dark and one fair. Hesitantly, she reached out and took their erections in her hands. She stopped there, until Temaile spoke again.

“Now lick them. Take them in your mouth and suck them. Ronelle here wants to watch you do it. We all do.”

“No I don’t!” Another crack of the whip silenced Ronelle’s protests, but not the angry curses of the other Accepted who watched helplessly as their friend was violated.

Emara leaned forward and stuck out her tongue. She touched it experimentally to Dalnos’ pink cock. She didn’t like what she’d tasted, but that didn’t matter to him. Grasping her curly head in his hands, he pulled the girl’s mouth towards him. Her gasp allowed him the opening he needed to ram his cock into her unwilling mouth. Emara’s big grey eyes blinked up at him as he noisily pumped in and out of her.

“Use your hand on the other one,” Temaile urged, and when Emara didn’t comply quickly enough another two welts appeared on Ronelle’s body.

The jerking motion of her hand wasn’t enough to satisfy Wain, for all that Temaile smirked to see her victim’s compliance. Taking matters into his own hands, the Warder moved around behind Emara and got down on his knees. Seeing his intent, Dalnos knelt as well, the hand tangled in Emara’s hair forcing her head low. Wain pulled Emara’s hips upwards and aimed his thick, dark cock at her exposed pussy. Mumbled protests sounded but with Dalnos holding her head in place no-one could hear what she’d meant to say. Even the scream she gave when Wain roughly penetrated her was muffled by the cock in her mouth.

Ronelle said it for her. “Burn you all, you rapist filth!”

There was nothing she, or any of the others, could do for Emara. All they could do was watch as the Warders used her and the Black Ajah smirked down at her. Perhaps it was a mercy that it was over so quickly.

Dalnos grunted in pleasure and Emara made a choking sound. She tried to pull away, and this time the rapist let her, but only so he could coat her face with sticky white cream. She flinched, and more of the substance leaked from her open mouth. Inspired by his fellow Warder, Wain pulled his cock out of Emara’s pussy, which bled like the virgin she had been, and began rubbing himself furiously. Soon he, too, was staining Emara’s body, his come spraying out to cover her skinny bottom.

The Warders sat back, satisfied for now, and Temaile stepped forward. She remained unnoticed by her morose victim until she brought the whip down across her back, bringing a sudden scream from her and making her turn her dirtied face around.

“Now everyone knows what you are. Girl-whore. For sale and for use. And you know it, too, don’t you?” Temaile said cruelly. Elayne hated her for that as much as for anything.

Emara hung her head and didn’t respond, but Temaile didn’t really expect her to. She told the Warders to return her to the stocks. They had an easy time doing so, for Emara was so lost to her misery by then that she didn’t even try to fight them. She didn’t seem to hear Ronelle’s whispered reassurances either.

“How rude of me. I’ve been neglecting the rest of you girls,” said Temaile. She cracked her whip at the air once more. “I’ll rectify that immediately.” She did as she’d said, too, strutting around the room bringing that hateful  _ ter’angreal _ down upon the bottoms of all the captured Accepted, with each one screaming in turn.

Elayne wasn’t silent when her turn came either. The pain, she discovered, was only part of it, though that alone hurt like blazes, leaving a line of fire across her bottom. There was also a chilling, draining feeling that came with the blow, one that left her feeling less than she had been. It didn’t help that she knew, from the Aes Sedai’s description of the  _ ter’angreal _ , that the effect was only temporary. The weakening of her ability to channel was entirely too much like a slow Stilling for her not to feel horror at the sensation.

The pain woke Theodrin with a startled howl that made the Black Sisters laugh. She blinked herself back to awareness only to stare around in horror at the scene she found herself in. When Dani failed to rouse in the same manner, Temaile asked Rianna to Heal her. The White complied with deliberate slowness. The weave she spun around Dani wasn’t pure Healing either, there was something else mixed in there that Elayne did not recognise, but which made Nynaeve growl. Dani woke with an even louder scream than the one Theodrin had let out. It took her longer to realise where she was, too, even after Rianna had stopped channelling. When she did, Dani’s dark eyes went very wide and she began struggling desperately against the stocks that held her in place, her breasts jiggling madly from her exertions. Only then did Temaile’s whip come crashing down to redden her already reddish skin.

“Leave her alone, you Darkfriend scum!” Ilyena snarled. “Release me! Face me alone if you are not cowards! I will kill ever last one of you!”

Joiya shook her head in motherly disapproval. “My, my. Such a loud girl. I fear I must blame our incompetent Amyrlin for this. What was she thinking, sending Accepted to contest with full Aes Sedai? It is small wonder, with such a poor example, that you girls would get such swollen heads.”

Falion nodded. “Sanche is a fool if she imagined these wretches could defeat us. And this one is a bigger fool to shout threats while shielded and naked, waiting to be stuffed full of whatever we wish to put in her.”

“Is that all you can think of? Rape? Darkfriends really are fools,” Mair scoffed. “Even the Aes Sedai ones are barely more than common bandits.”

Falion’s eyes became black slits. “Is that so? I wonder what would happen if I shoved that black rod in you and turned it on. Would you be so brave and dismissive then?”

“You, you will have to keep wondering, Falion,” said a familiar voice. All eyes turned to Liandrin, who stood in the doorway looking as sulky as ever. “High Lord Samon, he summons these ones to him,” she continued, pointing at Ilyena and Mair. “He has something special in mind for them, yes? Me, I think they will miss your tender mercies before he is done.”

She stepped aside, and a half a dozen armoured Defenders stepped past her into the dungeon. The sight that awaited them widened their eyes but they didn’t stand there gaping, just hurried over to fetch the two naked women that Liandrin pointed out.

“Joiya. You are wanted also,” Liandrin added.

“High Lord? What? Where are you taking Ilyena?” Dani babbled, still struggling to make sense of what had happened while she was unconscious. “Ilyena!”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me,” her pillow-friend said bravely. That she had to swallow repeatedly before she could get the words out made them a bit less than convincing. They certainly didn’t calm Dani’s fears, for she kept shouting Ilyena’s name as she was dragged away.

Temaile tutted to herself when the door closed behind Liandrin and the others. “I’d been looking forward to breaking those two. But opposing Be’lal would be beyond foolish, of course.”

Dani looked away from the door that had closed behind Ilyena long enough to give the Black Sister an incredulous look. “Be’lal? You are a mad fool. The Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul with the Dark One, bound by the Creator at the moment of Creation.”

Marillin stepped up to her. “Another one with too much pride. She is mine. I will see that she learns her place.”

“Yes. You are hogging all the fun for yourself, Temaile. Shame on you,” said Chesmal.

Rianna nodded. “Give me that whip for a moment. I want to see how brave the al’Meara girl is with no  _ saidar _ to call on.”

Falion turned her cold, dark eyes on poor Shimoku. “Such insults as these have given us deserve the harshest of responses.”

“Definitely,” said Asne with a gleeful grin.

Temaile gave the whip over to Rianna as requested, who wasted no time before taking it to Nynaeve’s back, quickly bringing her to a howling fury.

Chesmal had to make do with a whip woven from Air, but if she envied Rianna the use of the stolen  _ ter’angreal _ , she didn’t show it. It was Elayne she came to kneel before. There was nothing of deference in that kneeling, of course, Chesmal simply wanted to be able to look her right in the eyes as she whipped her. Elayne managed to keep silent after the first yelp. She narrowed her eyes and glared back at her tormenter.

“I shall venture a guess that you were the sort of child who liked to torment insects and small animals. Is that not so?”

Chesmal merely smiled patiently and kept up her whipping and her watching. Somehow she knew that, when it came to be her time to have her virginity stolen, Chesmal would be looking her in the eyes just like this. The thought made it hard to keep up her brave front.

“Spread out and get a good look, boys,” Jeaine urged her Warders. “Are any of them dripping yet? Whose pussy would you most like to fuck? Talk it over amongst yourselves. Perhaps I’ll be generous.”

“That Elayne one’s a looker,” she heard a man say. “I wouldn’t mind breaking her in.”

“Me neither,” said another. There was a brief pause. “Split her? Front and back?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Whatever it was that she saw in Elayne’s eyes just then caused Chesmal to smile happily.

Falion was as cruel as Chesmal but not as patient. She had her stocky Warder standing behind the bound Shimoku while she herself held the Accepted’s long hair in a tight grip.

“I’m sorry about this girl,” the Warder grated. Ogrin, she thought his name was.

“Please don’t!” Shimoku said.

“I wish I didn’t have to,” he responded.

Falion got annoyed at that. “Well you do! So shut up and do it! Now!”

At her word, Ogrin rammed his cock into the girl’s unwelcoming pussy. He squeezed his eyes shut as he did so, while she scrunched up her face and screamed out a pointless denial of what was happening.

She wasn’t the only one being raped just then. Asne had gathered all four of her Warders and had dragged Mayam over to one of the tables, which they’d promptly tied her onto, spread-eagled.

“A pity that Dalnos is so tired, but I still have three cocks to fill your holes with,” Asne said, leering down at the bound woman. Her “cocks” were queuing up before Mayam’s open pussy, and even Belar, who’d apologised for stripping her earlier, was ready to stick his thing inside her. Asne pulled up the skirts of her plain dress, which covered her so modestly, and yanked down her own sodden looking underwear with a complete disregard for modesty. She climbed up onto the table and knelt above Mayam, her knees resting on the other woman’s shoulders. “Now, slut, let’s see if you howl as wantonly as everyone always said you did.”

Mayam did indeed howl when the first Warder pushed his cock inside her, but it didn’t sound very wanton to Elayne’s ears. Asne enjoyed the sound more than she or Mayam did though. It inspired her to shift her hips forward and bring her pussy down on the Accepted’s face. Pained screams became muffled, and wanton moans replaced them, but it was only Asne herself who was enjoying it. She and perhaps the man who was pumping away between Mayam’s thighs, though Elayne couldn’t judge how much of what he was doing was done willingly.

Others among the Black Ajah were enjoying themselves as much, if in even more perverse ways. Marillin had used the One Power to alter the position of the stocks in which Dani was bound. Her still-trapped head and wrists were down near the floor now, while ropes of spun Air bound her legs close to her body, her feet held close to her exposed privates. More roped of Air held her hips to the wood, which had been reshaped to Marillin’s will.

“It’s a bit too dark in here, wouldn’t you agree, wilder? Let us shed some light of the situation, you and I.”

Dani’s taut body stretched painfully in the awkward position. Elayne couldn’t see her face, but she could hear the way her friend was struggling for breath. From where she was, Dani wouldn’t be able to see what was going on, but Elayne could, Light help her. Marillin left her briefly, and when she returned she was carrying a long wax candle. She slapped it idly against her palm as she peered down at Dani’s helpless crotch.

“Would your loose pussy hold it? Probably not. Let’s try this instead,” she said.

Parting Dani’s cheeks with the fingers of one hand, she used the other to jab the blunt end of the candle down against the Domani’s poor little bottom. A surprised and outraged scream sounded from down near the floor.

“Struggle all you want, girl. It’s going in whether you like it or not,” a smirking Marillin said.

She was right, too. Dani’s efforts to push the intruding object out of her backside were in vain. Marillin rammed it in there until half of the candle was hidden from view. Then, still smiling, she pointed at the wick and spun Fire. The candle flickered to life and illuminated the room, making Dani’s shame all the easier for everyone to see.

Amico laughed. “Well there’s an interesting idea. And here we are with two Domani prisoners as well.” She went and took hold of Theodrin’s hair. “Candle holders should come in matched pairs, don’t you think? Would you like to be the second?”

“Of course not!”

“Well you can help with your butt or your tongue,” Amico said with a wicked smile. “Which will it be?”

Theodrin’s face stiffened. “You want me to lick ... them?” She meant the Warders, but Amico shook her head.

“No. Me. And you’d better do a good job or it, or you’ll get the candle anyway.”

Frowning, Theodrin let her head fall. “Alright. It’s better than ... Alright.”

Amico smiled. Turning around, she pulled the yellow skirts of her dress up to her hips and lowered her underwear. She would have been a good-looking woman if she wasn’t what she was. She had the dark hair and eyes of a typical Arafellin, though her skin was a bit paler than normal. She might have been a noble, though Elayne had never heard of a House Nagoyin.

There was nothing noble about what she did to Theodrin. She backed towards her until the Domani’s face was between her cheeks, and then pressed her private parts against her insistently. Theodrin was left with little choice but to lick what Amico offered her. The expression that she showed, on the half of her face that could be seen over Amico’s bottom, made plain her distaste for the act. Not that Amico was likely to care about that, of course.

While she attended to Amico’s desires, Theodrin kept glancing over at Dani as if to reassure herself that she’d made the right decision. When drops of melted candle wax fell down onto Dani’s most private parts, to sear the hair and scald the sensitive flesh there and set her to screaming and jerking against her bonds, Theodrin began to lick at Amico’s pussy much more determinedly.

Jeaine’s sudden laughter cut across the grunts and moans and screams. “Not a chance, you stupid man,” she said in response to something one of her Warders had asked. He was completely naked and his cock looked almost painfully engorged. “You and the rest of my servants just get to watch. You live to protect me, not to satisfy your pathetic lusts.” The disappointment on her Warder’s face just made her laugh all the harder.

Even with Jeaine’s strange brand of cruelty having granted them a reprieve of sorts, the captive Accepted were a long way from safe. And having five less men to fear didn’t protect Keestis from being raped, Elayne was heart-broken to see. Not deterred by the loss of her whip, Temaile had gotten Dalnos and Wain back on their feet long enough to have them haul her out of the stocks and down to the cold floor. They pinned her there between them now, with Wain lying beneath her and Dalnos kneeling behind, both of them rutting away mindlessly. Keestis tried to fight them, but Dalnos had wrapped his arms around her from behind and laced his fingers at the nape of her neck, preventing her from moving her arms too much and leaving her breasts exposed for the other man to maul in his hard hands. Temaile watched it all, standing by a nearby table, idly playing with the horrific instruments there and loving every minute of Elayne’s friend’s double violation.

She jerked her gaze away from the sight, recalled what the men behind her had been saying, and shuddered.

“Yes. All of this and more awaits you, once the Great Master has no further use for you,” Chesmal said with an eager smile.

The blows of the Black Sister’s improvised whip kept falling upon Elayne’s back and bottom while all around her she could see and hear her friends being tormented. Over it all loomed the promise of even worse things to come, but Elayne refused to give up. She had to believe that somehow this would not be the way things ended for them. She only wished she had more than hope on which to build her resolve, for hope wasn’t enough to help her imagine a way in which they might escape this.


	28. In Search of a Remedy

CHAPTER 25: In Search of a Remedy

In a city as big as Tear, Nynaeve had proven as hard to find as a needle in a haystack, but Mat found ways to keep his spirits up. And the best of those ways were girls. Two of them. Specifically, the sisters who worked at The Woman of Ebou Dar. He hadn’t thought he had much of a chance with them at first, since they were so busy lusting after Thom, but with Dena watching over him like a hawk the girls soon let their eyes wander elsewhere.

It was the younger of the two women, Saal, who was the first to approach him, just as he was about to set out for another day of searching. “You look so tired, young Master,” she’d said. “Must you work so hard?”

Mat had grimaced in response. “Unfortunately. I’d sell my coat and boots for the chance to relax on one of your beaches for awhile and just watch the waves.”

She’d pressed something into his hand then, and when he’d glanced at it, his eyes had widened in confusion. She had given him a silver Tar Valon mark. “You should relax more. But even exhausted, you still have pretty eyes.” She’d laughed at the expression on his face, and then skipped away.

Mat might not be quite as good with women as Rand or Perrin were, but he knew a good opportunity when it pressed silver into his palm. He’d left the inn in a good mood that morning, rolling the silver coin across the backs of his fingers as he anticipated the night to come.

It had been even better than he’d anticipated, for Saal had brought company. She was a good kisser, too, the company Saal had brought. Mat learned that anew now, as he leaned back against her soft breasts and pressed his lips to hers. Her hands roamed over his naked body, when she wasn’t busy playing with herself. Her tongue explored his mouth for a delicious moment, before she leaned back to smile wickedly.

“She’s such a good girl, isn’t she?”

He followed her hand downwards, where it petted the dark hair of the girl whose head was bobbing up and down in his lap. “The best.”

“That’s my sister alright,” laughed Mada.

Saal’s eyes were open wide as she watched Mat kissing Mada. She had a hand down between her thighs, and was rubbing herself furiously while running her mouth up and down the length of his cock. As Mada watched her do it, her fingers tightened in her sister’s hair and she began rubbing her breasts up against Mat’s back.

“What a naughty pair you are!” Mat crowed. “I love it.”

Mada chuckled. “She was right. You really do have pretty eyes.”

Smiling, Mat relaxed and let the serving girls service him.  _ So I have pretty eyes, do I? _ It was a nice thought. Women had never stared at him the way they did at Rand or Wil al’Seen, so it was especially nice to get a compliment like that.

With Saal’s sweet mouth around his cock, and Mada kissing his lips and pinching his nipples, Mat was enjoying himself so much that he didn’t want it to end. But he knew he’d have another day of searching tomorrow and that he’d need some sleep. Besides, there would be other chances to play with the sisters.

“You’re too cute, the pair or you. I can’t resist you,” he warned. Far from virgins, they knew his meaning and intensified their self-ministrations.

“That’s it, Saal. Suck out every last drop,” Mada said breathlessly, urging her sister on with her hand as much as her words. The bobbing of Saal’s head intensified until Mat felt sure she was going to do exactly as her sister had said.

“Blood and ashes!” he cursed as he came in Saal’s mouth, jolts of pleasure shooting through him as spurts of come shot into her. She tried to swallow it all but some leaked out to stain her lips white. The sisters locked eyes then, and began rubbing themselves even harder. When they came, they came in unison, Saal’s moans muffled by the softening cock in her mouth, Mada’s anything but. Mat’s room wasn’t far from Thom’s, and neither of the sisters had been quiet in their pleasure since approaching him.

Blushing in her orgasm, Saal closed her eyes and went to work on sucking and licking Mat’s cock.  _ Now this is just heavenly _ , he thought, slumping back against Mada’s softness.

“Lazy boy,” Mada teased. She moved away and lowered Mat to the bed.

“I’ll sleep tonight,” he mumbled. His eyes had already drifted closed. He heard the sisters’ soft laughter as they came to snuggle in on either side of him. He welcomed them into his arms and was soon asleep.

He really had slept well that night. For once, Mada and Saal were gone by the time he woke up, off to work once more. So he’d dressed, washed, and taken himself off to Thom’s disappointingly normal room to prepare for the day’s search.

That was how he found himself slumped on the stool in the gleeman’s room, sharing concerned looks with Dena.

Mat grimaced as Thom coughed again.  _ How are we going to keep looking if he’s so bloody sick he can’t walk? _ He was ashamed as soon as he thought it. Thom had been as assiduous in searching as he had, pushing himself day and night, when he had to know he was coming down sick. Mat had been so absorbed in his hunt that he had paid too little attention to Thom’s coughing. The change from constant rain to steamy heat had not helped it.

“Come on, Thom,” he said. “Arjento says there’s a Wise Woman not far. That is what they call a Wisdom here—a Wise Woman. Wouldn’t Nynaeve like that!”

“I do not need ... any foul-tasting ... concoctions ... poured down my throat, boy.” Thom stuffed a fist through his moustaches in a vain attempt to stop his hacking. “You go ahead looking. Just give me ... a few hours ... on my bed ... and I’ll join you.” The wracking wheezes doubled him over till his head was almost on his knees.

Dena planted her fists on her hips. “You are far too old to be acting like such a child, Thom Merrilin! If I wanted a boy in need of looking after, I’d have batted my lashes at someone like Mat here.”

“What the—!?” Mat spluttered. “Why am I getting mud splattered on my boots? I was trying to talk him into going!?”

Uncaring of Mat’s abused dignity, Dena kept right on ranting at Thom. “Afraid of a healer! My mother told me men could be fools when it came to such things, but I never thought I’d actually see it!”

Thom pulled the blankets over himself and stubbornly turned his back to Dena. Mat wasn’t surprised. What man would let himself be bullied into doing something, even if it was something he needed to do? That would just be crazy.

“So I am supposed to do all the work while you take your ease?” Mat said lightly. “How can I find anything without you? You learn most of what we hear.” That was not exactly true; men talked as freely over dice as they did while buying a gleeman a cup of wine. More freely than they did with a gleeman hacking so hard they feared contagion. But he was beginning to think that Thom’s cough was not going to go away by itself.  _ If the old goat dies on me, who will I play stones with? _ he told himself roughly. “Anyway, your bloody coughing keeps me awake even in the next room.”

Ignoring the white-haired man’s protests, he pulled Thom to his feet. He was shocked at how much of the gleeman’s weight he had to support, until a muttering Dena came and took his other arm. Despite the damp heat, Thom insisted on his patch-covered cloak. Mat had his own coat unbuttoned completely and all three ties of his shirt undone, but he let the old goat have his way. No-one in the common room even looked up as he half carried Thom out into the muggy afternoon.

The innkeeper had given simple directions, but when they reached the gate, and faced the mud of the Maule, Mat almost turned back to ask after another Wise Woman. There had to be more than one in a city this size. Thom’s wheezing decided him. With a grimace Mat stepped off into the mud, half carrying the gleeman.

He had thought from the directions that they must have passed the Wise Woman’s house on their way up from the dock that first night, and when he saw the long, narrow house with bunches of herbs hanging in the windows, right next to a potter’s shop, he remembered it. Arjento had said something about going to the back door, but he had had enough of mud.

_ And the stink of fish _ , he thought, frowning at the barefoot men squelching by with their baskets on their backs. There were tracks of horses in the street, too, just beginning to be obliterated by feet and ox-carts.  _ Horses pulling a wagon, or maybe a carriage _ . He had seen nothing but oxen drawing carts or wagons either one in Tear—the nobles and the merchants were proud of their fine stock, and never let one be put to anything like work—but he had not seen any carriages since leaving the walled city, either.

Dismissing horses and wheel tracks from his mind, he took Thom to the front door and knocked. After a time he knocked again. Then again.

He was on the point of giving up and returning to The Woman of Ebou Dar despite Thom coughing on his shoulder when he heard shuffling footsteps inside.

The door opened barely more than a crack, and a stout, grey-haired woman peered out. “What do you want?” she asked in a tired voice.

Mat put on his best grin.  _ Light, but I am getting sick myself at all these people who sound like there’s no bloody hope _ . “Mother Guenna? My name is Mat Cauthon. Seba Arjento told me you might do something for my friend’s cough. I can pay well.”

She studied them a moment, seemed to listen to Thom’s wheezes, then sighed. “I suppose I can still do that, at least. You might as well come in.” She swung the door open and was already plodding toward the back of the house before Mat moved.

Her accent sounded so much like the Amyrlin’s that he shivered, but he followed, all but carrying Thom.

“I don’t ... need this,” the gleeman wheezed. “Bloody mixtures ... always taste like ... dung!”

“And coughing up a lung is better than a brief taste of something foul? Men!” Dena said.

Leading them all the way to the kitchen, Mother Guenna rummaged in one of the cupboards, taking out small stone pots and packets of herbs while muttering to herself.

Mat sat Thom down in one of the high-backed chairs, and waited while Mother Guenna brewed some sort of strong tea with a rank smell and forced it down Thom’s throat, holding his nose when he tried to complain. Mat decided she had less fat on her than he had thought, from the way she held the gleeman’s head steady in the crook of one arm while she poured the black liquid into him no matter how hard he tried to stop her.

When she took the cup away, Thom coughed and scrubbed at his mouth with equal vigour. “Gaaah! Woman ... I don’t know ... whether you ... mean to drown me ... or kill me ... with the taste! You ought ... to be a bloody ... blacksmith!”

“You will take the same twice a day till that hacking is gone,” she said firmly. “And I have a salve that you’ll rub on your chest every night.” Some of the weariness left her voice as she confronted the gleeman, fists on her broad hips. “That salve stinks as bad as this tea tastes, but you will rub it on—thoroughly!—or I’ll drag you upstairs like a scrawny carp in a net and tie you to a bed with that cloak of yours! I never had a gleeman come to me before, and I’ll not let the first one that does cough himself to death.”

“He won’t. I’ll make sure of it,” said Dena, coming to stand beside the other woman.

_ That’s how they do it _ , Mat told himself.  _ They gang up on you _ . He was just glad it was Thom and not him who had his neck in the noose this time.

Thom glowered and blew out his moustaches with a cough, but he seemed to take her threat seriously. At least, he did not say anything, but he looked as if he meant to throw her tea and her salve right back at her.

The more this Mother Guenna talked, the more she sounded like the Amyrlin to Mat. From the sour look on Thom’s face, and the steady stare on hers, he decided he had better smooth matters over a little before the gleeman refused to take her medicines. And she decided to make him. “I knew a woman once who talked like you,” he said. “All fish and nets and things. Sounded like you, too. The same accent, I mean. I suppose she’s Tairen.”

“Perhaps.” The grey-haired woman suddenly sounded tired again, and she kept staring at the floor. “I knew a girl with the sound of your speech on her tongue, too.” She sighed heavily.

Mat felt his scalp prickle.  _ My luck can’t be this good _ . But he would not bet a copper on another woman with a Theren accent just happening to be in Tear. “A girl? Two young women perhaps? Named Nynaeve and Elayne? That one has hair like the sun, and blue eyes.”

She frowned at him. “Those were not the names they gave,” she said slowly, “yet I suspected they did not give me their true names. But they had their reasons, I thought. One of them was a pretty girl with bright blue eyes and red-gold hair to her shoulders.” She described Nynaeve with her braid to her waist, too, and then began listing off a whole slew of other women, who sounded like they came from all over the continent.

“Now that’s a motley crew,” said Dena, frowning suspiciously. “Where did they all meet?”

Mat grimaced. He had a good idea of where Nynaeve had met such people. He just didn’t like to think about it.  _ I’m free of them now! _

“I see they are the ones you know,” Mother Guenna said. “I am sorry, boy.”

“Why are you sorry? I have been trying to find them for days!”  _ Light, I walked right past this place the first night! Right past them! I wanted random. What could be more random than where a ship docks on a rainy night, and where you happen to look in a bloody lightning flash? Burn me! Burn me! _ “Tell me where they are, Mother Guenna.”

The grey-haired woman stared wearily at the stove where her spouted kettle was steaming. Her mouth worked, but she said nothing.

“Where are they?” Mat demanded. “It is important! They are in danger if I don’t find them.”

“You do not understand,” she said softly. “You are an outlander. The High Nobles ...”

“I don’t care about any—” Mat blinked, and looked at Thom. The gleeman seemed to be frowning, but he was coughing so hard, Mat could not be sure. “What do the High Nobles have to do with my friends?”

“You just do not—”

“Don’t tell me I do not understand! I will pay for the information!”

Mother Guenna glared at him. “I do not take money for ... !” She grimaced fiercely. “You ask me to tell you things I have been told not to speak of. Do you know what will happen to me if I do and you breathe my name? I will lose my tongue, to begin. Then I will lose other parts before the High Nobles have what is left of me hung up to scream its last hours as a reminder to others to obey. And it will do those young women no good, not my telling or my dying!”

“I promise I will never mention your name to anyone. I swear it.”  _ And I’ll keep that oath, old woman, if you only tell me where they bloody are! _ “Please? They are in danger.”

She studied him for a long time; before she was done he had the feeling she knew every detail of him. “On that oath, I will tell you. I ... liked them. But you can do nothing. You are too late, Mat Cauthon. Too late by nearly three hours. They have been taken to the Stone. The High Lord Samon sent for them.” She shook her head in worried puzzlement. “He sent ... women who ... could channel. I hold nothing against Aes Sedai myself, but that is against the law. The law the High Lords made. If they break every other law, they would not break that one. Why would a High Lord send Aes Sedai on his errands? Why would he want those girls at all?”

Mat almost burst out laughing. “Aes Sedai? Mother Guenna, you had my heart in my throat, and maybe my liver, too. If Aes Sedai came for them, there is nothing to worry about. All of them are going to be Aes Sedai themselves. Not that I like it much, but that’s what they—” His grin faded at the heavy way she shook her head.

“Boy, those girls fought like lionfish in a net. Three of them even died in the fighting. Their bodies are out in my backyard right now. Am I supposed to bury them myself? No-one said, they just left them lying there. Whether they mean to be Aes Sedai or not, those who took them treated them like bilge pumpings. Friends do not do such cruel things.”

He felt his face twisting.  _ Aes Sedai hurt them? What in the Light? The bloody Stone. It makes the Palace in Caemlyn look like walking into a barnyard! Burn me! I stood right out there in the rain and stared at this house! Burn me for a bloody Light-blinded fool! _

“If you break your hand,” Mother Guenna said, “I will splint and poultice it, but if you damage my wall, I will strip your hide like a redfish!”

He blinked, then looked at his fist, at scraped knuckles. He did not even remember punching the wall.

The broad woman took his hand in a strong grip, but the fingers she used to probe were surprisingly gentle. “Nothing broken,” she grunted after a while. Her eyes were just as gentle as she studied his face. “It seems you care for them. One of them, at least, I suppose it is. I am sorry, Mat Cauthon.”

“Don’t be,” he told her. “At least I know where they are, now. All I have to do is get them out.” He fished out his last two Andoran gold crowns and pressed them into her hand. “For Thom’s medicines, and for letting me know about the girls.” On impulse, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and a grin. “And that’s for me.”

Startled, she touched her cheek, not seeming to know whether to look at the coins or at him. “Get them out, you say. Just like that. Out of the Stone.” Abruptly she stabbed him in the ribs with a finger as hard as a tree stub. “You remind me of my husband, Mat Cauthon. He was a headstrong fool who would sail into the teeth of a gale and laugh, too. I could almost think you’ll manage it.” Suddenly she saw his muddy boots, apparently for the first time. “It took me six months to teach him not to track mud into my house. If you do get those girls out, whichever of them you have your eye on will have a hard time training you to make you fit to be let inside.”

“You are the only woman who could do that,” he said with a grin that broadened at her glare.

_ Get them out. That’s all I have to do. Bring them right out of the Stone of bloody Tear _ . Thom coughed again.  _ He isn’t going into the Stone like that. Only, how do I stop him? _ “Mother Guenna, can I leave my friend here? I think he is too sick to go back to the inn.”

“What?” Thom barked, while Dena’s lips quirked into a smile. He tried to push himself out of the chair, coughing so he could hardly speak. “I am no ... such thing, boy! You think ... walking into the Stone ... will be like ... walking into your mother’s kitchen? You think you ... would make it ... as far as the gates ... without me?” He hung on the back of the chair, his wheezing and hacking keeping him from rising more than halfway to his feet.

Mother Guenna put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down as easily as a child. The gleeman gave her a startled look. “I will take care of him, Mat Cauthon,” she said.

“No!” Thom shouted. “You cannot ... do this to me! You can’t ... leave me ... with this old ...” Only her hand on his shoulder kept him from doubling over.

Dena’s hand on Mat’s arm stopped him from rushing out right then. She smiled at him and spoke in a low voice. “Thank you. You’re not quite as bad as I thought you were.”

“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong. I’m worse!” Mat boasted. He turned his grin on the white-haired man. “I have enjoyed knowing you, Thom.”

As he hurried out into the street, he found himself wondering why he had said that.  _ He isn’t going to bloody die. That woman will keep him alive if she has to drag him kicking and screaming out of his grave by his moustaches. Yes, but who is going to keep me alive? _

Ahead of him, the Stone of Tear loomed over the city, impregnable, a fortress besieged a hundred times, a stone on which a hundred armies had broken their teeth. And he had to get inside, somehow.

_ And bring out those women. Somehow _ . With a laugh that made even the sullen folk in the street look at him, he headed back for The Woman of Ebou Dar, uncaring of mud or the damp heat. He could feel the dice tumbling inside his head.


	29. High Lord Samon

CHAPTER 26: High Lord Samon

The afternoon sun was hot when Moiraine’s ship arrived in Tear; puddles stood on the steaming stones of the dock, and the air they breathed was a similar, unpleasant combination of damp and warmth. She could smell pitch and wood and rope, and she could see shipyards further south along the river. The people in sight were going about their daily lives as normal. There was no sign of the panic that a false Dragon’s attack should have caused. That gave her hope that they were not too late.

The huge shape of the Stone of Tear lay off to their left, shadowed so that it looked like a mountain despite the great banner at its highest point. It was almost impossible to look at, or think of, Tear without invoking the Stone. The city and the nation were, in many ways, defined by it and by the prophecies concerning it.

_ Is he here yet? Light, if he gets himself killed it will all have been for nothing _ .

“Peace! Is it always this warm here?” Ragan said. His coat was half undone, and the neck of his shirt untied. Like the rest of the Shienarans, he was unarmoured at Moiraine’s command. She wanted to avoid attention if she could.

“The summers can be rough in the south, if you’re not used to them,” said Tam. “But on the bright side, the winters are a pleasant spring.” He had a lot less concern for his son’s safety than Moiraine would have expected. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

While the two Aiel women exchanged looks, Tam and Ragan ceased their study of the city and went to help the others ready their horses for disembarkation. The sling that would lift them from the deck to the dock was already being attached to the first beast.

Moiraine had tied the innocuous-looking bundle that held the Dragon banner behind her saddle, and had donned a blue linen cloak. Its deep, wide hood hid her face. Her Great Serpent ring was on a cord around her neck. Tear did not forbid the presence of Aes Sedai, only channelling, but the Defenders of the Stone kept a close eye on any woman known to wear the ring.

Lan had stuffed his colour-shifting cloak into his saddlebags two days earlier. He made no concessions to the heat of Tear, of course. His grey-green coat was buttoned up all the way.

The girls were faring somewhat worse. Merile was the most travelled of them, and Raine the most accustomed to the outdoors, but even those two were wilting in the heat. The younger trio wore misery like a dress.

“Do you think we could get some of those hats?” Imoen asked. She was standing at the rail not far from Moiraine and Lan, staring out at the people of Tear, who’d adapted their dress to their environs. The mud of the dock district required them to go barefoot or wear wooden clogs. The heat called for men to wear loose, baggy breeches, while both men and women sported round straw hats to keep their heads cool. Moiraine had seen it all before, but it was excitingly new to them.

Saeri giggled. “They look so silly though!”

“But it would keep the sun off you,” Imoen pointed out. Though she was the youngest of the five, Moiraine had come to think her the most sensible of them.

“Thou art correct, friend Imoen, but I don’t think any heroes would wear one.”

“Thou art full of it,” Raine grouched. “Time to be in the shade. Trees or hats.”

Far from being offended, Saeri just laughed at the wolfsister’s words. The girls had gotten closer during the journey. Even shy, red-haired Luci, who would not normally have taken anyone’s side against her fellow Falmeran, spoke up.

“I definitely want a hat. I think I’ve gotten burned already.”

Raine, who was as pale as she was, nodded vigorously.

“Does anyone else think it smells funny here? Like really old, dead fish?” Merile said. The conversation crashed to a stop at her abrupt change of topic, but she didn’t seem to notice, just kept sniffing the air. “Spicy fish, with perfume on them. Why would you put perfume on fish?”

“Perhaps the bass are courting,” Moiraine said dryly. She walked away before they could do more than gape at her. It was a motley and troublesome crew that Rand had inflicted on her. They meant well, she did not doubt that, but good intentions accounted for little in this world. Those girls, Tam al’Thor, Uno and his lancers—their blundering and blather just made her work more difficult.

_ Yet mistakes can sometimes prove to one’s advantage _ , she thought, when Alanna emerged from her cabin dressed for travel with Ihvon in tow. The Green had a twitchy look about her this afternoon, one that would have earned her a sharp rebuke from any sister in the Tower. Aes Sedai were expected to be more composed than that. Her dark eyes searched the city, but not with the girlish curiosity that Imoen and her friends had shown. Alanna was not taking in the sights of Tear, she was searching for a very specific person, one that only she could find in that great mass of humanity.

As vital as the answer was, Moiraine did not ask the question. She simply looked at the other Aes Sedai and raised her brow expectantly. Tower hierarchy should do the rest.

The sulky look that appeared on Alanna’s face as she approached made her want to slap her. Aes Sedai had been losing Warders in battle for as long as the Tower had stood. Few, if any, of them had fallen apart the way Alanna had. At least her sulkiness didn’t prevent her from reporting on Rand’s status.

“He is here. In the city itself. And he is unharmed.”

As distasteful as she found the way Alanna had bonded Rand, Moiraine was glad of it just then. She didn’t let that show, of course. “Then we must ensure that he remains that way,” she said. “You will take me to him as soon as we have deposited our burdens elsewhere.”

That sulky look intensified, and a frown even knotted the woman’s dark brow, but she nodded her acquiescence nonetheless.  _ The sooner I can deposit this particular burden in Siuan’s lap the better _ . Let her sort out the mess Alanna had made. So far as she knew, no Amyrlin had ever ordered an Aes Sedai to release a Warder, but perhaps Siuan would be the first.

Captain Chesia’s crew knew their trade, and Uno’s people were both experienced in such matters and willing to lend a hand, so, despite the number of people and horses in need of moving, the disembarkation went quickly and smoothly.

As they rode towards the outer wall of Tear, Imoen and her friend’s noticed the wooden clogs that many of the passing Tairens were wearing. While they giggled behind their hands and whispered to each other, Loial’s ears drooped till their tufts were hidden in his hair. He looked at the people in the street worriedly.

“What do you find funny?” the Ogier asked. “These folk look ... defeated. They did not look this way when I was here last. Even people who let their grove be cut down do not deserve to look like this.”

The girls looked confused, but they fell silent at Loial’s rebuke. He was well thought of by all, and it was rare that he criticised anyone. He certainly did not do so without what he believed to be good cause. Frowning slightly, Moiraine began to study the faces of those they passed, and saw that Loial was right. Something had gone out of too many of those faces. Hope, maybe. Curiosity. They barely glanced at the party riding by, except to get out of the way of the horses. The Ogier, mounted on an animal as big as a draft horse, might as well have been just another man.

Moiraine and Lan exchanged looks. “Ogier,” she said, “are sensitive to some things.”

The streets changed, gaining wide stone paving, after they passed inside the gates of the high, grey city wall, past the hard, dark eyes of soldiers in breastplates over red coats with wide sleeves ending in narrow white cuffs, and rimmed, round helmets with a ridge over the top. Instead of the baggy breeches other men wore, theirs were tight, and tucked into knee-high boots. The soldiers frowned at the weapons Lan and the rest carried, and fingered their own, but in a way, despite their frowns and sharp looks, there was something beaten in their faces, too, as if nothing were really worth the effort any longer.

The buildings were larger and taller inside the walls, though most were made no differently from those outside. Palaces and great buildings stood among the smaller and more ordinary, seemingly placed haphazardly; a structure of towers and squarish, white domes, surrounded on all sides by wide streets, might have shops and inns and houses on the other sides of those streets. A huge hall fronted by squared columns of marble four paces on a side, with fifty steps to climb to reach bronze doors fifteen feet high, had a bakery one side and a tailor on the other.

More men wore coats and breeches like the soldiers’ here, though in brighter colours and without armour, and some even wore swords. None of them went barefoot, not even those in baggy breeches. The women’s dresses were often longer, their necklines lower to bare shoulders and even bosom, the cloth as likely to be silk as wool. The Sea Folk traded a good deal of silk through Tear. As many sedan chairs and carriages drawn by teams of horses moved through the streets as ox-carts and wagons. Yet too many of the faces had that same look of having given up.

The inn Lan chose, the Star, had a weaver’s shop on one side and a smithy on the other, with narrow alleyways between. The smithy was of undressed grey stone, the weaver’s and the inn of wood, though the Star stood four stories tall and had small windows in its roof as well. The rattle of looms was hard-pressed to compete with the clang of the smith’s hammer. The rich and the over-curious were unlikely to patronise such a poorly placed establishment. They handed their horses over to stablemen, to be taken around back, and went inside the inn.

As expected, the majority of those within were of poorer means. The innkeeper proved to be a round-faced, balding man in a long, deep blue coat and those loose breeches, who bowed over hands clasped across his stout belly. His face had that look, a weary resignation. “The Light shine on you, mistresses, and welcome,” he sighed. “The Light shine on you masters, and welcome.” He gave a small start at Raine’s yellow eyes, then passed wearily on to Loial. “The Light shine on you, friend Ogier, and welcome. It is a year or more since I have seen one of your kind in Tear. Some work or other at the Stone. They stayed in the Stone, of course, but I saw them in the street one day.” He finished with another sigh, seemingly unable to summon any curiosity as to why another Ogier had come to Tear, or why any of them had come, for that matter.

The balding man, whose name was Jurah Haret, showed them to their rooms himself. Apparently Moiraine and Alanna’s silk dresses and the way they kept their faces hidden, taken with the hard faces of Lan and the other soldiers, as well as their weapons, made them a pair of ladies and their guards in his eyes, and so worthy of his personal attention. The girls he obviously took for serving maids, even—

Moiraine’s head whipped around. The Aiel were gone. She hadn’t noticed them leave and did not care to guess why they had done so.  _ More complications. The last thing I need _ .

Haret called men to push beds together for Loial, and offered Moiraine a private room for her meals if she wished. She accepted graciously, in spite of how much else she had on her mind.

They made a small procession through the upper halls, depositing men and women at each spare room, until Haret bowed her towards his best. He sighed at the white-plastered room as though it was shamefully filthy, but it looked clean and neat enough for her purposes.

Lan, Alanna, Ihvon, Uno and Raine were the only ones left from their procession by then. Moiraine was wondering how long they should stay in the city for and where she should take Rand once she had him back in hand, when she heard the innkeeper say the words “proclaiming the Dragon in Ghealdan”.

She stopped dead in the doorway to her room, and her heart nearly stopped just as dead in her chest.  _ It can’t be. There shouldn’t be any more false Dragons, not now that Rand has proclaimed himself. Not unless he is not the true Dragon Reborn _ . “There is another false Dragon, innkeeper? In Ghealdan?” The hood of her cloak still hid her face, but she failed to prevent her voice from shaking.

Raine sniffed at her. “Fear,” she said, her low voice not at all hiding her surprise.

Haret was quick to break off his talk with Lan to try to calm her jangled nerves. “Ah, Lady, never you fear. ’Tis a hundred leagues to Ghealdan, and none will trouble you here, not with Master Andra about. Why—”

His condescending reassurance offended her as much as it did Lan. “Answer her!” he said harshly. “Is there a false Dragon in Ghealdan?”

“Ah. Ah, no, Master Andra, not precisely. I said there’s a man proclaiming the Dragon in Ghealdan, so I heard this morning. Preaching his coming, you might say. Talking about that fellow over in Falmerden we’ve heard about. Though some do say ’tis Valreis, not Falmerden. A long way from here, in any case. Why, any other day, I expect we’d talk more of that than anything else, except maybe the wild tales about Hawkwing’s army come back—” Lan’s cold eyes might as well have been knife blades from the way Haret swallowed and scrubbed his hands faster. “I only know what I hear, Master Andra. ’Tis said the fellow has a stare can pin you where you stand, and he talks all sorts of rubbish about the Dragon coming to save us, and we all have to follow, and even the beasts will fight for the Dragon. I don’t know whether they’ve arrested him yet or not. ’Tis likely; the Ghealdanin would not put up long with that kind of talk.”

“You are right, innkeeper,” Lan said. “This fellow isn’t likely to trouble us here. I knew a fellow once who liked to make wild speeches. You remember him, Lady Alys, don’t you? Masema?”

Moiraine gave a start. “Masema. Yes. Of course. I had put him out of my mind.” She firmed her voice. “When next I see Masema, he will wish someone had peeled his hide to make boots.”

Uno growled wordlessly to himself, his face purpling from the effort of not cursing at the man’s news. Moiraine slammed the door of her room behind her, leaving the innkeeper to escort her remaining companions to their beds. She would meet with them again, in the private sitting room, as she’d already arranged, before she left to find Rand. For now, she needed a moment to compose herself.

_ This is exactly the kind of thing that happens when I take too lenient a hand with him. Chaos. I must bring things to order before it is too late _ .

It was a more select group that met in the sitting room. No maids. No footsoldiers. Only those who might be expected to contribute in some meaningful way. As it should be. The Aes Sedai and their Warders led, of course, while Uno, Tam, Loial and Raine waited for instructions. Those last two were not, perhaps, the most disciplined of assets, but they had access to unique abilities and knowledge that Moiraine lacked.

“You feel that something is wrong in this city, and I do not gainsay you, Loial,” she said once they had all been seated and she had made them private. “Can you tell me what you think is the matter?”

He shook his head. “It just feels wrong. Do you know how you can tell that there is rot in a plant without needing to look? It is like that.”

“Can’t you explain it better than that, Builder?” said Alanna.

“It’s their dreams,” Raine muttered. Her golden eyes were fixed on the table before her, and her shoulders were hunched against an unseen blow. “The net-man is disturbing the pond. They can tell. Even if they can’t tell.”

Alanna closed her eyes and sighed softly. “I take it back, Builder. You are as lucid and as eloquent as can be.”

But Moiraine recalled other times that someone with eyes like Raine’s had spoken of dreams, and thought it best to probe further. “The pond you speak of, would it be  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ ? The World of Dreams? Who is the ‘net-man’?”

“The wolfdream. The red forest. The white branch. You know? That’s where he bes. Shadowkiller went there, too. I told him he shouldn’t.”

Uno frowned in confusion. “This ‘Shadowkiller’ ... that’s the Lord Dragon, isn’t it? Is he flaming here or not? I haven’t heard of any weddings, or wells drying up.”

She saw Tam frown in confusion. Moiraine had not been forthcoming with him, and neither had Lan. Keeping the others’ tongues silent had been more difficult. She did not doubt that he would know of that particular aspect of a  _ ta’veren _ ’s influence soon enough though.

“Don’t you listen to rumours?” Lan said. “There have been marriages, as many in the last four days as in half a year before. And as many murders as in a whole year. A child fell from a tower balcony today. A hundred feet onto stone paving. She got up and ran to her mother without a bruise. The First of Mayene, a ‘guest’ in the Stone since before the winter, announced today that she will submit to the will of the High Lords, after saying yesterday she would see Mayene and all its ships burn before one Tairen country lord set foot in the city. They had not brought themselves to torture her, and that young woman has a will like iron, so you tell me if you think it might be Rand’s doing. From top to bottom, Tear bubbles like a cauldron.”

“My  _ Warder _ ,” said Alanna, empathising the title and giving Raine a sharp glance, “is here, but I hardly see that he could be the cause of all of that.”

Moiraine had not been forthcoming with her either. Unlike Tam, she thought Alanna would have a hard time persuading Rand’s companions to fill her in on all that had happened with him in this past year. “These things were not needed to tell me,” she said. “Did any of you dream of Rand last night?”

Tam avoided their eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “He was in the Heart of the Stone, holding that sword. But I have been worrying about that so much it is no wonder I dream of it.”

“You see,” Moiraine said. “I have heard this dream spoken of a dozen times today. They all speak of nightmares, but that one above all else.” She laughed suddenly. “People say he is the Dragon Reborn. They say he is coming. They whisper it fearfully in corners, but they say it. Rand is here, you may be sure of it. I will fetch him shortly. Uno. To you and Tam will fall the task of securing this building for us.”

“ _ We _ will fetch him,” Alanna insisted.

Al’Thor wore that annoyingly knowing look again. “Why don’t we all go? I don’t see that they need me to help guard an inn,” he said. She was beginning to see where his son had gotten his presumptuousness.

“You will not be accompanying me because you were not invited, Master al’Thor,” she said coldly. “You need no more reason than that.”

Lan punctuated her words with a hard look for the other man. They had sparred during the idle hours of their sailing, and Lan had proven the better swordsman. He accounted al’Thor to be worthy of the heron-mark blade he’d once carried, but to be out of practice and not yet at his best. Lan claimed he might be a dangerous opponent if he managed to recover his edge.

Dangerous to other men perhaps. Not to her. She stared al’Thor in the eyes until he blinked.

“I wouldn’t inflict my company on a woman if it wasn’t welcomed,” he said. He did not, she noticed, promise not to go looking for Rand on his own. She wondered what would happen if she tried to force such a promise from him.

_ The net-man ... What a childish name. And yet ... _

Moiraine found she was working her cloak in her hands. Wiping them dry of sweat that was not there. Cleaning them of a stain she could not see. Loial was right, she decided. There was something wrong in this city. Perhaps, while searching for Rand, she could find out what.

“Remain close to the inn,” she said after a moment. “Tear can be a dangerous city for those who do not know its ways. The Pattern can be torn, here.” That last was soft, to herself. In a stronger voice she said, “Lan, Alanna, Ihvon, let us see what we can discover without attracting attention. The rest of you, stay close to the inn!”

Alanna frowned off in the direction of the Stone as soon as they stepped into the inn’s stableyard to fetch their horses. She was eager to go to Rand, but Moiraine knew of a woman nearby, a most clever and reliable woman who’d served as part of the Blue Ajah’s network of eyes and ears for almost as long as Moiraine had been an Aes Sedai. If anyone would know what was going on in Tear, it would be her. A brief visit on their way to Rand’s location would hardly make a difference, she decided.

The woman in question, Maryel Figo, was a merchant by trade, specialising in precious metals and jewels. Tairen law was not kind to the commonborn such as she, but wealth and connections were ofttimes more important than law, and Maryel had an abundance of both.

The palace Moiraine led them to would have done any Lord of the Land proud, and if it was a trifle less grand than the High Lords enjoyed, it was only by a trifle.

“Tell Mistress Figo I wish to discuss the trade in sapphires,” Moiraine told the neatly dressed servant who answered Lan’s knock. “I will wait.”

She had not long to wait, of course. Nor did she have to walk far before the house’s owner made herself known.

“My old friend! Welcome, welcome,” Maryel said with a smile that almost made her look young again. She was still a slender woman, but the grey had won out over the black that had once crowned her head. “I won’t be needing you, Rupar. Have refreshments delivered to my sitting room and then return to your duties.”

She led them to said sitting room herself, her smile still firmly in place. Only when Ihvon had closed the door behind them and taken up station nearby did she let the facade drop.

“Why are you here in person? We have birds for this sort of thing. Light! If the nobles find out I’ve been talking to Aes Sedai they will have me hanged. If I’m lucky!”

“Remember to whom you speak, merchant,” Alanna said coldly.

“I do!” Maryel snapped. “I remember that what I give the Tower is worth more than the—unneeded!—coin it sends me.”

Alanna looked as surprised as though a mouse had reared up and challenged her to a duel. Moiraine, on the other hand, knew that certain people could not be overawed, not even by the White Tower. Such people often responded better to a gentle approach.

“It is. And I would not normally have made so clumsy an approach. But there is a matter of some import in the offing, and I need information.”

Mollified by Moiraine’s words, Maryel took a seat by the table and adjusted the silk skirt of her dress. “Well. No-one knows the comings and goings in Tear better than I. At least, those that take place outside the Stone.”

Moiraine bent her head in thought, her hood shadowing her face. It was hard to know what to ask when she wasn’t entirely sure what she was asking for. “What has occurred out of the ordinary in Tear of late?” she finally said.

“There was that false Dragon a while back, but he’s long dead. I know several men who where there when it happened.”

“No. More recently than that. In the past few weeks, say.”

Maryel pursed her lips. “We’ve had word of thieves prowling the rooftops. Several of my business associates have been spending extra on security in anticipation of a heist. There’s been a lot of wild talk as well. Whether its people complaining about not getting any sleep, or people trying to outdo each other with tales of folk being stabbed to death by stray hay bales, or falling five stories without even taking a bruise, each tale more ridiculous than the last. It makes it hard to sift fact from fiction.” She sniffed. “Why someone, a Defender of the Stone no less, even told me that he’d heard people calling the High Lord Samon by the alias ‘Be’lal’, as if anyone, even a High Lord, would be arrogant enough or crazy enough to use a name like that! Buffoon! His sweetheart will have to look elsewhere for her fancies, and if that means he sleeps in a cold bed tonight, then good!”

“You may do him an injustice,” Moiraine breathed. “This High Lord Samon. Is he perchance a recent addition to the ruling council?”

Maryel nodded. “Just this year. He’s powerful though. I hear his name on many lips.”

_ Powerful indeed _ . Her heart was racing. A Forsaken in the Stone of Tear. Where  _ Callandor _ was housed. It was all too plausible. Powerful channelers were known to be able to influence the dreams of others, if they did not take the care to ward their own. A Forsaken ruling in Tear. And Rand was in the city. Alone.

“Moiraine Sedai? Are you alright?”

Maryel’s uncharacteristically diffident voice snapped her back to awareness.

“Of course. Everything is under—”

Moiraine blinked. The first Oath would not let her finish the sentence. She should have phrased the evasion differently. She’d have to try again. She’d have to collect Rand quickly and flee the city, too. Evade or defeat the Forsaken, warn the Amyrlin, find a way to winkle Be’lal out of the strongest fortress in the world so the Dragon Reborn could fulfil his destiny, get his recalcitrant followers in line, see Alanna punished for her crime in a way that did not do more damage than had already been done. Just a few little things. She’d have to try and see that Maryel wasn’t killed for telling her what she’d heard as well.

“You must leave the city. Your Defender may be more right than he knew,” she found herself saying. Alanna sniffed rudely.

“Surely that isn’t necessary,” Maryel said. She gave Moiraine a disbelieving look. “I am well thought of here. Repeating a few rumours won’t change that.”

“Listen to me, woman!” Moiraine snapped. “This is not a Whitecloak or a Darkfriend I speak of. This man may well be exactly what he was claiming to be. You will flee this city, and make anyone you care for flee with you. For a dozen years you have obeyed me. Obey me now!” Maryel nodded, but reluctantly, and Moiraine growled with exasperation. “I have no time for this. You have heard my warning, discount it at your peril! Alanna. We must be quick.”

Lan was already at the door, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Moiraine hurried out after him, while Alanna glided along after her, and Maryel foolishly called out a reminder that refreshments were coming.

As soon as they were back on the street, Moiraine rushed over to the hitching post to which Aldieb was tied. “Where exactly is he now?” she asked Alanna as she climbed into her saddle. Lan was already on Mandarb’s back, his eyes searching the street for threats.

Alanna took her time about getting onto her own horse’s back. She had named the black stallion Ayende, which meant “freedom” in the Old Tongue. Given her crime, Moiraine couldn’t help but think the name to be rather inappropriate.

“Well!?” she snapped.

A sickly smile crossed Alanna’s face. She pointed up the street, where the mountainous block that was the Stone of Tear could be seen looming over the city. “He’s there.”

Moiraine’s stomach turned to ice.


	30. A Flow of the Spirit

CHAPTER 27: A Flow of the Spirit

As Moiraine reached the front door of the inn, Tam and Raine met her, coming the other way. Light from the common-room windows made yellow pools on the paving stones. Two or three carriages rumbled past, and there were perhaps a dozen people in sight, hurrying home for their suppers, but for the most part, shadows populated the street. The weaver’s shop was closed tight.

“It’s a big ask, girl, in a city this size. Are you sure you can do it?” Tam was saying. He had a cloak about his shoulders, and the hilt of a sword could be seen poking out of its folds.

Raine’s mouth was downturned, as was its wont. “Good tracker. Shadowkiller is Shadowkiller.” Her eyes rose to Moiraine’s. Like Perrin’s, her pupils lit up unnaturally in the evening light. “Trouble,” she added.

“Yes, though of a predictable kind,” Moiraine said coolly. “If you are quite done sneaking off, there is something important we must speak of. Something that all must hear.”

“I assume you can handle these two, Moiraine. I will get the others under control, and shepherd them to the sitting room,” Alanna said optimistically. She strode ahead of them, her divided skirts making small whisking noises as they entered the inn. Ihvon hurried after her.

Moiraine glided past Tam and Raine, outwardly calm and collected, but inwardly glad when they came with her.

“You finished your business here faster than at Whitebridge,” Tam said. “Or did you forget something?”

Moiraine did not deign to look at him. “Once again events outpace me. I do not like that. And neither should you. If events outrun me, they may well trample you, and the rest of the world with you.” He fell silent then, and followed her back to the private room she had only recently vacated.

Some of the other Shienarans had joined Uno and Loial while she was out. Geko, Ragan and Izana specifically. They broke off their conversation when she entered, looking surprised.

“Why are you back so soon, Moiraine Sedai?” Uno asked respectfully. Despite his rough tongue, he was usually respectful of Aes Sedai. At least when he was outside of Rand’s influence.

“Thought you wanted to find Shadowkiller. Most important thing, you said,” Raine said, almost sulkily.

“Be careful of your desires. They carry a price,” Moiraine said grimly. “Your wolf dreams tell as truly as a Dreamer’s, Raine. The Forsaken are loose, and one of them rules in Tear. High Lord Samon is Be’lal.”

Several of the Shienarans shivered. She knew they would be recalling the last time they had faced off against a Forsaken, and how poorly it had gone for them. Moiraine remembered it, too.

“A Forsaken!?” said Tam. He looked as frightened as she’d ever seen him, but that fear only lasted for a moment. “We have to find Rand at once.”

Loial squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “I could have remained in the  _ stedding _ . I would probably have been very happy, married, whoever my mother chose. She is a fine woman, my mother, and she would not give me to a bad wife.” His ears seemed to have hidden themselves completely in his shaggy hair.

“You can go back to Stedding Shangtai,” Moiraine said. “Leave now, if you wish. I will not stop you.”

Loial opened one eye. “I can go?”

“If you wish,” she said.

“Oh.” He opened the other eye, and scratched his cheek with blunt fingers the size of sausages. “I suppose ... I suppose ... if I have a choice ... that I will stay with all of you. I have taken a great many notes, but not nearly enough to complete my book, and I would not like to leave my friends, and Rand—”

Moiraine cut him off in a cold voice. “Good, Loial. I am glad that you are staying. I will be glad to use any knowledge you have. But until this is done, I have no time to listen to your complaints!”

After a moment Tam said, “Is he after Rand? To stop him, or kill him?”

“I think not,” she said quietly. “I fear he means to let Rand enter the Heart of the Stone and take  _ Callandor _ , then take it away from him. I fear he means to kill the Dragon Reborn with the very weapon that is meant to herald him.”

“Do we run?” Ragan asked. “Once we’ve joined up with the Lord Dragon again, I mean. I don’t like running, but I don’t see how we could beat one of them, not after last time.”

“We dare not run,” Moiraine said. “Worlds and time rest on Rand, on the Dragon Reborn. This time, we fight. Even the Forsaken cannot stand up to Balefire. If I can come close enough to Be’lal, I can destroy him. But if he sees me first, he can destroy us all, long before I have a chance.” She turned her attention to Loial. “What can you tell me of Be’lal?”

The others blinked at the Ogier in confusion.

“You know Be’lal?” Raine asked him incredulously.

“Ogier,” the Aes Sedai said coolly, “have long memories, girl. It has been well over a hundred generations since the Breaking for humans, but less than twenty for Ogier. We still learn things from their stories that we did not know. Now tell me, Loial. What do you know of Be’lal? And briefly, for once. I want your long memory, not your long wind.”

Loial cleared his throat, a sound much like firewood tumbling down a chute. “Be’lal.” His ears flickered out of his hair like hummingbird wings, then snapped down again. “I do not know what can be in the stories about him you do not already know. He is not much mentioned, except in the razing of the Hall of the Servants just before Lews Therin Kinslayer and the Hundred Companions sealed him up with the Dark One. Jalanda, son of Aried son of Coiam wrote that he was called the Envious, that he forsook the Light because he envied Lews Therin, and that he envied Ishamael and Lanfear, too. In A Study of the War of the Shadow, Moilin daughter of Hamada daughter of Juendan called Be’lal the Netweaver, but I do not know why. She mentioned him playing a game of stones with Lews Therin and winning, and that he always boasted of it.” He glanced at Moiraine and rumbled, “I am trying to be brief. I do not know anything important about him. Several writers say Be’lal and Sammael were both leaders in the fight against the Dark One before they forsook the Light, and both were masters of the sword. That is truly all I know. He may be mentioned in other books, other stories, but I have not read them. Be’lal is just not spoken of very often. I am sorry I could not tell you anything useful.”

“Perhaps you have. I did not know of the name, the Netweaver,” Moiraine told him, flicking a glance at Raine. It was a useful thing,  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ . “Or that he envied the Dragon as well as his companions in the Shadow. That strengthens my belief that he wants  _ Callandor _ . That must be the reason he has chosen to make himself a High Lord of Tear. And the Netweaver—a name for a schemer, a patient and cunning planner. You have done well, Loial.” For a moment the Ogier’s wide mouth curved up in a pleased smile, but then it curved down again.

A grim silence fell as they contemplated the opponent who waited in the Heart of the Stone. Moiraine heard a sound from above, a thump as of something large falling to the floor. Her room would be just above this one, unless she was misremembering the inn’s layout.

Loial’s voice interrupted her musing. “If he is inside the Stone, if he is waiting there for Rand, we must go inside to reach him. How do we do that? No-one enters the Stone without the permission of the High Nobles, and looking at it, I don’t see any way but through the gates.”

“You do not go in, Ogier,” Lan said. “The Aes Sedai and Warders will be the only ones to enter. The more who go, the harder it will be. Whatever way in I find, I cannot believe it will be easy even for only four.”

“Gaidin,” Moiraine began in a firm voice, but Lan cut her off with one just as firm.

“Do you mean to go without me? I pledged to keep you whole, Moiraine, when I took your bond.”

“You have always known there were some dangers you are not equipped to handle, my Gaidin. I must go alone.”

“Moiraine—”

She cut him off. “Heed me, Lan. Should I fail, you will know it, and you will be compelled to return to the White Tower. I would not change that even if I had time. I do not mean you to die in a vain attempt to avenge me. Tell the Amyrlin she must fetch Perrin from Emond’s Field. I was a fool. Rand is so strongly  _ ta’veren _ that I ignored what it must mean that he had two others close by him. With Perrin and Mat, the Amyrlin may still be able to affect the course of events. With Rand loose, she will have to. Tell her what has happened, my Gaidin.”

“You speak as if you are already dead,” Lan said roughly. “We go together, Moiraine. I will not stand aside. Besides, how do you hope to enter the Stone unseen without my help?”

His determination was layered over concern, for her and for their mission. She could feel it. And, as much as she wanted to ensure he continued the fight, she knew she would be glad to have him watching her back in there. So she nodded, and felt him relax.

“And what do you expect the rest of us to do? Sit here and wait?” Tam asked.

“You and the others will go to Tar Valon,” she told him. “Until this is done. It will be the safest place for you.”

She felt a flicker of surprise from Lan, and a flicker of disapproval, too, but both were quickly smothered beneath resolve. He was honour bound to support her. “I want all of you on your way north as soon as possible,” he said.

“Not without Rand,” Tam said firmly.

“I do not have time for this, Master al’Thor,” Moiraine said. “I have a Forsaken to face.”

“All the more reason not to waste time trying to convince me, Moiraine Sedai. I am not young Min, to be sent away when inconvenient. I will go when and where my son goes.”

Uno had already taken a step towards the door, but he’d stopped when Tam spoke. He froze there now, his lone eye swivelling between the Aes Sedai and Rand’s father.

“What would the Lord Dragon want?” Izana asked him after a minute, his voice soft.

Unfortunately, that ugly business with Alanna had left little doubt as to what that was. Uno’s face hardened. “We wait.”

Moiraine took a deep breath to calm herself. “Very well.” Her voice was ice; calm, smooth, cold. As it should be. “Remain if you wish. Perhaps you will survive this night.”

“We can help. We have helped,” Uno dared to say, even in the face of her displeasure.

“A dozen men are not going to storm the Stone of Tear,” Lan told him, “Not and live to tell of it. The Tairens maintain a standing army of perhaps two thousand Defenders of the Stone. Stealth is our weapon here.”

“I understand that, Dai Shan,” Uno said.

“Inukai, Rikimaru and Ayame are as stealthy as anyone in the queen’s army. Take them with you at least,” Geko added.

“And me!” said Raine.

“Enough! If we speak any longer then everyone will have volunteered. Those four, and no others,” Moiraine said firmly.

“The rest of you can secure our escape,” Lan went on. “I have to be out studying the Stone.” He paused. “There is a thing that your news drove out of my head Moiraine. A small thing, and I cannot see what it might mean. There are more Aiel in Tear than the two Maidens who came with us.”

“Aiel!” Loial exclaimed. “Impossible! The entire city would be in a panic if one Aiel came through the gates.”

“I did not say they were walking the streets, Ogier. The rooftops and chimneys of the city make as good hiding as the Waste. I saw no less than three, though apparently no-one else in Tear has seen any of them. And if I saw three, you can be sure there are many times that I did not see.”

“Urien and his group?” Tam asked. “You said they went chasing after Rand.”

“I cannot say. They were hooded and veiled.”

_ Yet more complications _ . Moiraine steepled her fingers. “We stagger blindly while Be’lal weaves his nets, and the Wheel weaves the Pattern around us. But are the Aiel the Wheel’s weaving, or Be’lal’s?”

The sound of running footsteps approaching their door drew her attention. The men tensed, and Raine’s upper lip drew back from her teeth, but when the door burst open it was only Merile who came in.

“Something’s wrong with Alanna! And Ihvon!” she said breathlessly. Fear paled the girl’s face, and made her already large eyes look even larger.

“Calm yourself, Merile. What has happened?” Moiraine said.

“They fell down and they won’t get up! Ihvon’s outside your room and Alanna’s inside, just lying on the floor. I tried to wake him but he wouldn’t answer. And there was something wrong with the room. I didn’t dare go in.”

Uno cursed as he ran for the stairs with the other men hard on his heels. Moiraine hurried after them as quickly as her dignity would allow. As she reached the top of the stairs she, too, sensed the “wrongness” of which Merile had spoken. The One Power had been used here.

Uno knelt over Ihvon, who was slumped against the wall outside her bedroom, his legs splayed out and his chin resting on his chest. The Shienaran frowned as he pressed his fingers against the man’s neck to feel for a pulse.

After pausing briefly at the doorway, Izana started to rush into the room.

Inserting as much command into her voice as she could, Moiraine called out, “Stop, you fool! Stop, for your life!” Thankfully, he did, jerking to a halt just outside the room. She approached slowly, trying to feel what had been done. Lan followed with his hand on his sword, though he already knew steel would do no good. She came abreast of the door and stopped. “Move back, Izana. Move back!”

Alanna was lying on the floor near the bedside table, her knees out to one side and her hands lying still before her. A blanket of black hair hid her face from Moiraine’s scrutiny. The woman’s chest was barely moving. It was only due to her ability to sense the presence of another living channeler of  _ saidar _ that Moiraine knew she was alive.

“Can you tell what happened to her?” Tam asked. He and the others crowded behind her in the doorway while she studied the scene, with Loial looming over them all.

“You have sharp eyes, Raine. What is that by her right hand,” she said calmly. “As if it dropped from her grip when she fell. I cannot make it out.”

The wolfsister peered into the room. “A hedgehog. It looks like a hedgehog carved out of wood.”

“A hedgehog,” she murmured. “A hedgehog. I can sense the residues of the flows woven to set it. Spirit. Pure Spirit, and nothing else. Almost nothing uses pure flows of Spirit! Why does that hedgehog make me think of Spirit?”

“What was set? A trap?” asked Tam.

“Yes, a trap,” she said. Irritation spiked in her. And, little as she liked to admit it, fear as well.  _ He knows I’m here _ . “A trap meant for me, but one that Alanna’s intrusion has triggered prematurely. Lan! Bring me that innkeeper!” Her Warder flowed away down the stairs.

Moiraine paced up and down in the hall, sometimes stopping to peer through the door as she waited. The commotion drew others out into the hall, each demanding answers that she did not deign to give. While Uno got his men in order, Tam took the girl’s aside to explain things to them.

When Lan returned, shoving a frightened Jurah Haret ahead of him by the scruff of his fat neck, Moiraine rounded on the balding man. “You promised to keep this room for me, Master Haret.” Her voice was as hard, as precise, as a skinning knife. “To allow not even a serving woman to enter to clean unless I was present. Who did you let enter it, Master Haret? Tell me!”

Haret shook like a bowl of pudding. “O-only the t-two Ladies, mistress. T-they w-wished to leave a surprise for you. I swear, mistress. T-they showed it t-to me. A little h-hedgehog. T-they said you w-would be surprised.”

“I was surprised, innkeeper,” she said softly. “Leave me! And if you whisper a word of this, even in your sleep, I will pull this inn down and leave only a hole in the ground.”

“Y-yes, mistress,” he whispered. “I swear it! I do swear!”

“Go!”

The innkeeper fell to his knees in his haste to reach the stairs, and went scrambling down with thumps that suggested he fell more than once as he ran.

“He knows I am here,” she told Lan, “and he has found someone of the Black Ajah to set his trap, yet perhaps he thinks I am caught in it. It was a tiny flash of the Power, but perhaps he is strong enough to have sensed it.”

“Then he will not suspect we are coming,” Lan said quietly. He almost smiled.

She heard the words “Black Ajah” echoing in the hall, whispered by men and woman who would never have thought to hear an Aes Sedai admit that such a thing existed. But the days in which that delusion could be allowed to exist were growing fewer.

“What about Alanna? Is she alive,” Tam asked, grim-faced. He sounded concerned, but she knew that was not for Alanna’s sake. If she died, his son’s fate would be sealed with her.

“She is alive,” Moiraine said slowly. “I cannot, I dare not, go close enough to her to tell much beyond that, but she is alive. She ... sleeps, in a way. As a bear sleeps in the winter. Her heart beats so slowly you could count minutes between. Her breathing is the same. She sleeps. I fear she is not there. Not in her body any longer.”

“Then where is she?”

“I do not know,” she said. “I have a suspicion, but I do not know.”

“And your suspicion is?” he pestered.

“I know very little on this topic, Master al’Thor,” she said coldly. “I have remembered the little I know of what connects a carved hedgehog with Spirit. The carving is a  _ ter’angreal _ last studied by Corianin Nedeal, the last Dreamer the Tower had. The Talent called Dreaming is a thing of Spirit. It is not a thing I have ever studied; my Talents lie in other ways. I believe that Alanna has been trapped inside a dream, perhaps even the World of Dreams,  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ . All that is her is inside that dream. All. A Dreamer sends only a part of herself. If Alanna does not return soon, her body will die. Perhaps she will live on in the dream. I do not know.”

Tam frowned into the room. “And Rand?”

“That is a problem that I cannot solve right now. The trap has been sprung, Master al’Thor, but it is a trap that will still catch anyone who steps into that room. I would not reach her side before it took me. And I have work I must do tonight.” Work that she would now have to do without the support of another Aes Sedai and Warder, and without the precious  _ angreal _ that was safely tucked away in her saddlebags underneath the bed. But then, what about the task she had taken up all those years ago had ever been easy?

“I was right not to go in then. Good for me!” said Merile.

Raine nodded. “Dreams are dangerous. So is Be’lal.”

Moiraine’s reply was cold-drawn steel. “I will deal with him tonight.”

“ _ We _ will deal with him tonight,” Lan told her.

“Yes, my Gaidin. We will deal with him.”

Lan strode down the hall to his room. In moments he returned, wearing his colour-changing cloak.

“Lan, you must find me the way into the Stone quickly. Us. Find us a way in quickly.”

“As you command, Aes Sedai,” he said, but his tone was more warm than formal. He vanished down the stairs without another word to her.


	31. Into the Stone

CHAPTER 28: Into the Stone

The rooftops of Tear were no place for a sensible man to be in the night, Mat decided as he peered into the moon shadows. A little more than fifty paces of broad street, or perhaps narrow plaza, separated the Stone from his tiled roof, itself three stories above the paving stones _ . But when was I ever sensible? The only people I ever met who were sensible all the time were so boring that watching them could put you to sleep _ . Whether the thing was a street or a plaza, he had followed it all the way around the Stone since nightfall; the only place it did not go was on the river side, where the Arindrelle ran right along the foot of the fortress, and nothing interrupted it except the city wall. That wall was only two houses to his right. So far, the top of the wall seemed the best path to the Stone, but not one he would be overjoyed to take.

Picking up his quarterstaff and a small, wire-handled tin box, he moved carefully to a brick chimney a little nearer the wall. The roll of fireworks—what had been the roll of fireworks before he worked on it back in his room—shifted on his back. It was more of a bundle, now, all jammed together as tight as he could make it, but still too big for carrying around rooftops in the dark. Earlier, a slip of his foot because of the thing had sent a roof tile skittering over the edge, and roused the man sleeping in a room below to bellow “thief!” and send him running. He hitched the bundle back into position without thinking about it, and crouched in the shadows of the chimney. After a moment he set the tin box down; the wire handle was beginning to grow uncomfortably warm.

It felt a little safer, studying the Stone from the shadows, but not much more encouraging. The city wall was not nearly as thick as those he had seen in other places, in Caemlyn or Tar Valon, no more than three feet wide, supported by great stone buttresses cloaked in darkness, now. That width was more than sufficient for walking, of course, except that the fall to either side was nearly sixty feet.  _ Through the dark, to hard pavement. But some of these bloody houses back right up against it, I can make it to the top easily enough, and it bloody runs straight to the bloody Stone! _

It did that, but that was no particular comfort. The sides of the Stone looked like cliffs. Eyeing the height again, he told himself he should be able to climb it.  _ Of course, I can. Just like those cliffs in the Mountains of Mist _ . Over three hundred feet straight up before there was a battlement. There must be arrowslits lower down, but he could not make them out in the night. And he could not squeeze through an arrowslit.  _ Three hundred bloody feet. Maybe three hundred and sixty. Burn me, even Rand would not try to climb that _ . But it was the one way in he had found. Every gate he had seen had been shut tight and looked strong enough to stop a herd of bulls, not to mention the dozen or so soldiers guarding very nearly every last one, in helmets and breastplates, and swords at their belts.

Suddenly he blinked, and squinted at the side of the Stone. There was some fool climbing it, just visible as a moving shadow in the moonlight, and over halfway up already, with a drop of two hundred feet or more to the pavement beneath him _ . Fool, is he? Well, I’m as big a one, because I am going up, too. Burn me, he’ll probably raise an alarm in there and get me caught _ . He could not see the climber anymore.  _ Who in the Light is he? What does it matter who he is? Burn me, but this is a bloody way to win a wager. I’m going to want a kiss from all of them, even Nynaeve! _

He shifted to peer toward the wall, trying to choose his spot to climb, and suddenly there was steel across his throat. Without thinking, he knocked it away and swept the man’s feet out from under him with his staff. Someone else kicked his own feet away and he fell almost on top of the man he had knocked down. He rolled off onto the roof tiles, loosing the bundle of fireworks— _ If that falls into the street, I’ll break their necks! _ —staff whirling; he felt it strike flesh, and a second time, heard grunts. Then there were two blades at his throat.

He froze, arms outflung. The points of short spears, dull so they hardly caught the faint light of the moon at all, pressed into his flesh just short of bringing blood. His eyes followed them up to the faces of whoever was holding them, but their heads were shrouded, their faces veiled in black except for their eyes, staring at him.  _ Burn me, I have to run into real thieves! What happened to my luck? _

He put on a grin, with plenty of teeth so they could see it in the moonlight. “I do not mean to trouble you in your work, so if you let me go my way, I’ll let you go yours and say nothing.” The veiled men did not move, and neither did their spears. “I want no more outcry than you. I’ll not betray you.” They stood like statues, staring down at him.  _ Burn me, I do not have time for this. Time to toss the dice. _ For a chilling moment he thought the words in his head had been strange. He tightened his grip on the quarterstaff, lying out to one side of him—and almost cried out when someone stepped hard on his wrist.

He rolled his eyes to see who.  _ Burn me for a fool, I forgot the one I fell on _ . But he saw another shape moving behind the one standing on his wrist, and decided maybe it was as well he had not managed to bring the staff into use after all.

It was a soft boot, laced to the knee, that rested on his arm. He eyed the night-cloaked shape the rest of the way up, trying to make out the cut and colours of his clothes—they seemed all shadow, colours that blended with the darkness too well to see them clearly—past a long-bladed knife at the fellow’s waist, right up to the dark veil across his face. A black-veiled face. Black-veiled.

_ Aiel! Burn me, what are bloody Aiel doing here! _ He had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he remembered hearing that Aiel veiled themselves when they killed.

“Yes,” said a man’s voice, “we are Aiel.” Mat gave a start; he had not realized he had spoken aloud.

“You dance well for one caught by surprise,” a young woman’s voice said. He thought she was the one standing on his wrist. “Perhaps another day I will have time to dance with you properly.”

He started to smile— _ If she wants to dance, they can’t be going to kill me, at least! _ —then frowned instead. He seemed to remember Aiel sometimes meant something different when they said that.

The spears were pulled back, and hands hauled him to his feet. He shook them away and brushed himself off as if he were standing in a common room instead of on a night-cloaked rooftop with four Aiel. It always paid to let the other man know you had a steady nerve. The Aiel had quivers at their waists as well as knives, and more of those short spears on their backs with cased bows, the long spear points sticking up above their shoulders. He heard himself humming “I’m Down at the Bottom of the Well”, and stopped it.

“What do you do here?” the man’s voice asked. With the veils, Mat was not entirely sure which one had spoken; the voice sounded older, confident, used to command. He thought he could pick out the woman, at least; she was the only one shorter than he, and that not by much. The others all stood a head taller than he or more.  _ Bloody Aiel _ , he thought. “We have watched you for some little time,” the older man went on, “watched you watch the Stone. You have studied it from every side. Why?”

“I could ask the same of all of you,” another voice said. Mat was the only one who gave a start as a man in baggy breeches stepped out of the shadows. The fellow appeared to be shoeless, for better footing on the tiles. “I expected to find thieves, not Aiel,” the man went on, “but do not think your numbers frighten me.” A slim staff no taller than his head made a blur and a hum as he whirled it. “My name is Juilin Sandar, and I am a thief-catcher, and I would know why you are on the rooftops staring at the Stone.”

Mat shook his head.  _ How many bloody people are on the roofs tonight? _ All that was needed was for Thom to appear and play his harp, or someone to come looking for an inn. A bloody thief-taker! He wondered why the Aiel were just standing there.

“You stalk well, for a city man,” the older man’s voice said. “But why do you follow us? We have stolen nothing. Why have you looked so often at the Stone tonight yourself?”

Even in the moonlight this Sandar’s surprise was evident. He gave a start, opened his mouth— and closed it again as four more Aiel rose out of the dimness behind him. With a sigh, he leaned on his slender staff. “It seems I am caught myself,” he muttered. “It seems I must answer your questions.” He peered toward the Stone, then shook his head. “I ... did a thing today that ... troubles me.” He sounded almost as though he were talking to himself, trying to puzzle it out. “Part of me says it was right, what I did, that I must obey. Surely, it seemed right when I did it. But a small voice tells me ... I betrayed something. I am certain this voice is wrong, and it is very small, but it will not stop.” He stopped then himself, shaking his head again.

One of the Aiel nodded, and spoke with the older man’s voice. “I am Rhuarc, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel, and once I was  _ Aethan Dor _ , a Red Shield. Sometimes the Red Shields do as your thief-catchers do. I say this so you will understand that I know what it is you do and the kind of man you must be. I mean no harm to you, Juilin Sandar of the thief-catchers, nor to the people of your city, but you will not be suffered to raise the armcry. If you will keep silence, you will live; if not, not.”

“You mean no harm to the city,” Sandar said slowly. “Why are you here, then?”

“The Stone.” Rhuarc’s tone made it plain that was all he meant to say.

After a moment Sandar nodded, and muttered, “I could almost wish you had the power to harm the Stone, Rhuarc. I will hold my tongue.”

Rhuarc turned his veiled face to Mat. “And you, nameless youngling? Will you tell me now why you watch the Stone so closely?”

“I just wanted a walk in the moonlight,” Mat said lightly. The young woman put her spearpoint to his throat again; he tried not to swallow.  _ Well, maybe I can tell them something of it _ . He must not let them know he was shaken; if you let the other fellow know that, you lost whatever edge you might have. Very carefully, with two fingers, he moved her steel away from him. It seemed to him that she laughed softly. “Some friends of mine are inside the Stone,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Prisoners. I mean to bring them out.”

“Alone, nameless one?” Rhuarc said.

“Well, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else,” Mat said dryly. “Unless you care to help? You seem interested in the Stone yourself. If you mean to go into it, perhaps we could go together. It is a tight roll of the dice any way you look at it, but my luck runs good.”  _ So far, anyway. I’ve run into black-veiled Aiel and they have not cut my throat; luck cannot get much better than that. Burn me, it would not be bad to have a few Aiel along with me in there _ . “You could do worse than betting on my luck.”

“We are not here for prisoners, gambler,” Rhuarc said.

“It is time, Rhuarc.” Mat could not tell from which of the Aiel that came, but Rhuarc nodded.

“Yes, Urien.” He looked from Mat to Sandar and back. “Do not give the armcry.” He turned away, and in two steps he had blended into the night.

Mat gave a start. The other Aiel were gone, too, leaving him alone with the thief-taker.  _ Unless they left somebody to watch us. Burn me, how could I tell if they did? _ “I hope you don’t mean to try stopping me, either,” he told Sandar as he slung the bundle of fireworks on his back again and picked up his quarterstaff. “I mean to go inside, by you or through you, one way or the other.” He went over to the chimney to pick up the tin box; the wire handle was more than warm, now.

“These friends of yours,” Sandar said. “They are young women?”

Mat frowned at him, wishing there was enough light to show the man’s face clearly. The fellow’s voice sounded odd. “What do you know of them?”

“I know they are inside the Stone. And I know a small gate near the river where a thief-catcher can gain entrance with a prisoner, to take him to the cells. The cells where they must be. If you will trust me, gambler, I can take us that far. What happens after that is up to chance. Perhaps your luck will bring us out again alive.”

“I have always been lucky,” Mat said slowly.  _ Do I feel lucky enough to trust him? _ He did not much like the idea of pretending to be a prisoner; it seemed too easy for pretence to become reality. But it seemed no bigger risk than trying to climb three hundred feet or more straight up in the dark.

He glanced toward the city wall, and stared. Shadows flowed along it; dim shapes trotting. Aiel, he was sure. There must have been over a hundred. They vanished, but now he could make out shadows moving on the cliff face that was the sheer side of the Stone of Tear. So much for going up that way. That one fellow earlier might have made it inside without raising an alarm—Rhuarc’s armcry—but a hundred or more Aiel would have to be like sounding bells. They might make a diversion, though. If they caused a commotion somewhere up there, inside the Stone, then whoever was guarding the cells might not pay as much attention to a thief-taker bringing a thief.

_ I might as well add a little to the confusion _ . I worked hard enough on it. “Very well, thief-taker. Just don’t decide I am a real prisoner at the last minute. We can start for your gate as soon as I stir the anthill a bit.” He thought Sandar frowned, but he did not mean to tell the man more than he had to.

Sandar followed him across the rooftops, climbing to higher levels as easily as he did. The last roof was only a little lower than the top of the wall and ran right up to it, a matter of pulling himself up rather than climbing.

“What are you doing?” Sandar whispered.

“Wait here for me.”

With the tin box dangling from one hand by its wire handle and his quarterstaff held horizontally in front of him, Mat took a deep breath and started toward the Stone. He tried not to think of how far it was to the pavement below.  _ Light, the bloody thing is three feet wide! I could walk it with a bloody blindfold, in my sleep! _ Three feet wide, in the dark, and better than fifty feet to the pavement. He tried not to think about Sandar not being there when he came back, either. He was all but committed to this fool notion of pretending to be a thief caught by the man, but it seemed all too probable that he would return to the roof to find Sandar gone, maybe bringing more men to make him a prisoner in truth.

_ Don’t think about it. Just do the job at hand. At least I’ll finally see what it is like _ .

As he had suspected, there was an arrowslit in the wall of the Stone right at the end of the wall, a deep wedge cut into the rock holding a tall, narrow opening for an archer to shoot through. If the Stone were attacked, the soldiers inside would want some way to stop any trying to follow this path. The slit was dark, now. There did not appear to be anyone watching. That was something he had tried not to think about, too.

Quickly he set down the tin box at his feet, balanced his quarterstaff across the wall right against the side of the Stone, and unslung the bundle from his back. Hurriedly he wedged it into the slit, forcing it in as far as he could; he wanted as much of the noise to be inside as he could manage. Pulling aside a corner of the oiled cloth cover revealed knotted fuses. After a little thinking, back in his room, he had cut the longer fuses to match the shortest, using the pieces to help tie all the fuses together. It seemed they should all go off at once, and a bang-and-flash like that should be enough to pull everyone who was not completely deaf.

The lid of the tin box was hot enough that he had to blow on his fingers twice before he could pry it off—he wished he had whatever Aludra’s trick had been, lighting those lanterns so easily—to expose the dark bit of charcoal inside, lying on a bed of sand. The wire handle came off to make tongs, and a little blowing had the coal glowing red again. He touched the hot coal to the knotted fuses, let tongs and coal fall over the side of the wall as the fuses hissed into flame, snatched up his quarterstaff and darted back along the wall.

_ This is crazy _ , he thought as he ran.  _ I don’t care how big a bang it makes. I could break my fool neck doing thi—! _

The roar behind him was louder than anything he had ever heard in his life; a monstrous fist punched him in the back, knocking all the wind out of him even before he landed, sprawled on his belly on the wall top, barely holding on to his staff as it swung over the edge. For a moment he lay there, trying to make his lungs work again, trying not to think how he must have used up all his luck this time by not falling off the wall. His ears rang like all the bells in Tar Valon.

Pushing himself up carefully, he looked back toward the Stone. A cloud of smoke hung around the arrowslit. Behind the smoke, the shadowed shape of the arrowslit itself seemed different. Larger. He did not understand how or why, but it did seem larger.

He only thought for a moment. At one end of the wall Sandar might be waiting, might be intending to take him into the Stone as a pretend prisoner—or might be hurrying back with soldiers. At the other end of the wall, there might be a way inside without any chance of Sandar betraying him. He darted back the way he had just come, no longer worrying about the darkness or the drop to either side.

The arrowslit  _ was _ larger, most of the thinner stone at the middle simply gone, leaving a rough hole as if someone had hammered at it with a sledge for hours. A hole just big enough for a man.  _ How in the Light? _ There was no time for wondering.

He pushed through the jagged opening, coughing at the acrid smoke, jumped to the floor inside, and had run a dozen steps before Defenders of the Stone appeared, at least ten of them, all shouting in confusion. Most wore only their shirts, and none had armour. Some carried lanterns. Some held bared swords.

_ Fool! _ he shouted inside his head.  _ This is why you set the bloody things off in the first place! Light-blinded fool! _

He had no time to make it back out onto the wall. Quarterstaff spinning, he threw himself at the soldiers before they had a chance to do more than see he was there, hurled himself into them, smashing at heads, swords, knees, whatever he could reach, knowing they were too many for him to handle alone, knowing that his fool toss of the dice had cost Nynaeve and the others whatever chance he might have had.

Suddenly Sandar was there beside him, in the light of lanterns dropped by men clawing for their swords, his slender staff whirling even faster than Mat’s quarterstaff. Caught between two staffmen, taken by surprise, the soldiers went down like pins in a game of bowls.

Sandar stared at the fallen men, shaking his head. “Defenders of the Stone. I have attacked Defenders! They will have my head for—! What was it that you did, gambler? That flash of light, and thunder, breaking stone. Did you call lightning?” His voice fell to a whisper. “Have I joined myself to a man who can channel?”

“Fireworks,” Mat said curtly. His ears were still ringing, but he could hear more boots coming, running boots thudding on stone. “The cells, man! Show me the way to the cells before any more get here!”

Sandar shook himself. “This way!” He dashed down a side hall, away from the oncoming boots. “We must hurry! They will kill us if they find us!” Somewhere above, gongs began to sound an alarm, and more thundered echoes through the Stone.

_ I’m coming _ , Mat thought as he ran after the thief-taker.  _ I’ll get you out or die! I promise it! _

* * *

The alarm gongs sent echoes crashing through the Stone, but Rand paid no more attention to them than he had to the roar that had come before, like muffled thunder from somewhere below. His side ached; the old wound burned, strained almost to tearing by the climb up the side of the fortress. He gave the pain no heed, either. A crooked smile was fixed on his face, a smile of anticipation and dread that he could not have wiped away if he had wanted to. It was close, now. What he had dreamed of.

_ Callandor _ .

His feet were moving almost of their own accord, as they had been since he’d arrived in this city. He felt as though something was pulling him, pushing him, forcing him towards the Heart of the Stone. Towards his destiny. Down dark and twisting corridors he strode, heading ever inwards. He could almost feel the sheer weight of rock above pressing down on him.

_ Duty is heavier than a mountain, death lighter than a feather _ .

There were weaponracks and gates of iron bars at regular intervals, even deep inside the Stone. He was fortunate that the inner gates had been left open. When he’d gained the battlements above, after that long and difficult climb, he’d had to use  _ saidin _ to burn his way through the heavy door that had prevented his entry. The corridors had no real order to them that he could see. Sometimes five or more came together at an intersection, sometimes one stretched on for a hundred feet or more, and sometimes they even ended in solid stone. It would have been easy to get lost in here, if you didn’t know the Stone. Or your feet weren’t being guided by something greater than it.

Part of him knew it was madness to come here. The Stone was huge, filled with soldiers who would kill an intruder without hesitation. Only the foolish and the insane would do what he was doing. But he couldn’t stop now.

_ I will finish it at last. One way or another, it will be done with. The dreams, finished. The baiting, and the taunting, and the hunting. I’ll finish it all! _

Laughing quietly to himself, he hurried through the dark corridors of the Stone of Tear.

* * *

Alarm gongs somewhere above sent sonorous clangs down the corridor, not quite drowning out the ring of metal on metal and the shouts of fighting men rather closer. The Aiel and the Defenders, Mat suspected. Tall, golden lamp stands, each with four golden lamps, lined the hall where Mat was, and silk tapestries of battle scenes hung on the polished stone walls. There were even silk carpets on the floor, dark red on dark blue, woven in the Tairen maze. For once, Mat was too busy to put a price on anything.

_ This bloody fellow is good _ , he thought as he managed to sweep a sword thrust away from him, but the blow he aimed at the man’s head with the other end of the staff had to turn into another block of that darting blade.  _ I wonder if he is one of these bloody High Lords? _ He almost managed a solid blow at a knee, but his opponent sprang back, his straight blade raised on guard.

The blue-eyed man certainly wore the puffy-sleeved coat, yellow with thread-of-gold stripes, but it was all undone, his shirt only half tucked into his breeches, and his feet bare. His short-cropped, dark hair was tousled, like that of a man roused hastily from sleep, but he did not fight like it. Five minutes ago he had come darting out from one of the tall, carved doors that lined this hall, a scabbardless sword in his hands, and Mat was only grateful the fellow had appeared in front of them and not behind. He was not the first man dressed so that Mat had faced already, but he was surely the best.

“Can you make it past me, thief-catcher?” Mat called, careful not to take his eyes off the man waiting for him with blade poised to strike. Sandar had insisted irritably on “thief-catcher,” not “thief-taker,” though Mat could not see any difference.

“I cannot,” Sandar called from behind him. “If you move to let me by, you will lose room to swing that oar you call a staff, and he will spit you like a grunt.”

_ Like a what? _ “Well, think of something, Tairen. This ragamuffin is grating my nerves.”

The man in the gold-striped coat sneered. “You will be honoured to die on the blade of the High Lord Darlin Sisnera, peasant, if I allow it so.” It was the first time he had deigned to speak. “Instead, I think I will have the pair of you hung by the heels, and watch while the skin is stripped from your bodies.”

Mat scowled dangerously. “Is that so? A nice flaying for the ‘peasant’, is it?” He was past tired of people looking down on him. The Aes Sedai kept him prisoner and treated him like a criminal. Bloody Joline bonded him. Sammael chased him out of Illian, and now this stuck-up noble wanted to torture him just for breaking into his bloody castle? “Why don’t you come over here and try it? See what happens to you,” he snapped.

The High Lord’s face reddened with indignation at being challenged and he stepped forward. Mat gave him no time for any outraged comment. Quarterstaff whirling in a tight double-loop weave, so quick the staff blurred at the ends, he leaped to meet him. It was all a snarling Darlin could do to keep the staff from him. For the moment. Mat knew he could not keep this up very long, and if he was lucky then, it would all go back to the strike and counterstrike. If he was lucky. But he had no intention of counting on luck this time. As soon as the High Lord had a moment to set himself in a pattern of defence, Mat altered his attack in midwhirl. The end of the staff Darlin had been expecting at his head dipped instead to sweep his legs out from under him. The other end did strike at his head then, as he fell, a sharp thump right in the throat that crushed the soft cartilage there. Darlin hit the ground and dropped his sword to claw uselessly at his neck, fighting for one more breath but failing to win one. His face purpled and his eyes rolled back up in his head. Eventually, he grew still.

Panting, Mat leaned on his staff over the dead High Lord.  _ Burn me, if I have to fight one or two more like this, I’ll bloody well fall over from exhaustion! The stories do not tell you being a hero is such hard work! Nynaeve always did find a way to make me work _ .

Sandar came to stand beside him, frowning down at the High Lord’s corpse. “He does not look so mighty lying there,” he said wonderingly. “He does not look so much greater than me.”

Mat gave a start and peered down the hall, where a man had just gone trotting across along a joining corridor.  _ Burn me, if I did not know it was crazy, I would swear that was Rand! _

“Sandar, you find that—” he began, swinging his staff up onto his shoulder, and cut off when it thudded into something.

Spinning, he found himself facing another half-dressed High Lord, this one with his sword on the floor, his knees buckling, and both hands to his head where Mat’s staff had split his scalp. Hastily, Mat poked him hard in the stomach with the butt of the staff to bring his hands down, then gave him another thump on the head to put him down in a heap on top of his sword.

“Luck, Sandar,” he muttered. “You cannot beat bloody luck. Now, why don’t you find this bloody private way the High Lords take down to the cells?” Sandar had insisted there was such a stairway, and using it would avoid having to run through most of the Stone. Mat did not think he liked men so eager to watch people put to the question that they wanted a quick route to the prisoners from their apartments.

“Just be glad you were so lucky,” Sandar said unsteadily, “or this one would have killed us both before we saw him. I know the door is here somewhere. Are you coming? Or do you mean to wait for another High Lord to appear?”

“Lead on.” Mat stepped over the unconscious High Lord. “I am no bloody hero.”

Trotting, he followed the thief-catcher, who peered at the tall doors they passed, muttering that he knew it was here somewhere.


	32. Taking a Chance

CHAPTER 29: Taking a Chance

Elayne put a hand to her swollen cheek, wincing. Her lip was split, her eye tender, her body bruised, but she still felt that she had been more fortunate than the rest of the Black Ajah’s prisoners.

The cell was absolutely empty except for her fellow Accepted and one smoky rush torch casting flickering shadows on the grey stone walls. They hadn’t even been given a bucket to relieve themselves in. The floor was bare, and cold, and hard. The door of rough planks, splintered as if countless futile fingers had clawed at it, was the only break in the walls. Messages had been scratched in the stone, most by unsteady hands.

_ The Light have mercy and let me die _ , one read. She hoped there were no such messages scratched into the walls of the dungeons in Caemlyn. There were places there that she’d never been allowed to go, but she liked to think her ancestors of nobler character than these Tairen High Lords.

“Are we still shielded?” Pedra mumbled. She had gotten off lightly, too. Perhaps more so than any of them. Other than the humiliation of having urinated herself, she’d been left alone in the stocks.

“I have tried,” Nynaeve said despairingly. “I have tried, and tried, and tried.” She gave her braid a sharp tug, anger seeping through despite the hopeless fear in her voice. “One of them is sitting outside. Amico, that milk-faced chit, if they have not changed since we were thrown in here. I suppose one is enough to maintain the shielding once it has been woven.”

Theodrin choked back a sob. For all that there were tears in her dark eyes, she looked angry. “If that door wasn’t in the way, I’d strangle her to death with my bare hands,” said she who had so recently pressed her head between Amico’s milky cheeks and licked her until she came all over her face.

Elayne shuddered, and tried to force the memories from her mind. It was no use. She knew it was unworthy of her to compare injuries, but every time she glanced at the women huddled nearby, her mind would number their hurts and her heart would fill with pity and shame and rage.

She, Pedra, Nynaeve and Ronelle were the only ones who’d been spared some kind of sexual assault.  _ Today at least. Tomorrow ... _ Elayne wrapped her arms around herself in a futile effort to stop the shivering. Who had gotten it worst? Mayam, who’d been made to pleasure Asne while three men raped her one after another? Keestis, who’d been raped by two Warders at once, with one of them squeezing his thing into her poor little bottom? Emara, who’d been made to take an active part in her own degradation under threat of her pillow-friend’s death? Shimoku had only— _ only!? That word has no place here! _ —yet she had only been raped once and by one man, a fact that did nothing to alleviate her trauma.  _ Nor should it. Burn me. I am unjustly blessed to have escaped the same _ .

Haunting memories made mirrors of the disparate women’s faces as they stared silently into the nothingness. Elayne found she could no longer look at their faces for long. A terrible mixture of relief and guilt filled her when she did so.

Or perhaps it was Dani who’d been the most hurt. She had been spared the touch of a stranger’s flesh, but could no longer sit on account of the burns to her private parts. She leaned against a wall instead, with her hands on her knees and her legs spread in a most unladylike but perfectly understandable fashion. She was clad in the same rough smock that the rest of them had been given when their tormentors decided to retire for the evening. Sweat beaded her brow, and her gaze was fixed on the door through which Ilyena and Mair had not yet been thrown. She must wonder, as Elayne did, what had become of them. She couldn’t imagine why they had been kept so much longer than the rest of them, but she was sure it had to be for some horrible, horrible reason.

“What do they want with us?” Dani gritted out.

“Bait. Liandrin said we are bait,” Elayne said. She tried to sound unafraid but she failed miserably. Even a child’s voice would have quavered less than that.

“Bait for what? Bait for who?” Dani demanded. “If I am bait, I’d like to shove myself down their throats till they choke on me!”

Nynaeve and Elayne exchanged looks. They knew who the trap was for, but none of the other women even knew Rand existed. They would have to mind their words.

“He must be coming here,” said Nynaeve.

“Are you certain?” Elayne sighed. “I would much rather free myself than wait for the chance of him, but if there is anyone who can defeat Liandrin and the rest of them, it must be him. He is meant to come here eventually. And face greater opponents than Liandrin. He must be able to defeat them.”

“Not if we pull him into a cage after us,” Nynaeve muttered. “Not if they have a trap set he does not see.”

“Who are you talking about?” Theodrin asked.

Again they exchanged looks. “Just a friend of ours,” Nynaeve said. Perhaps knowing how feeble an answer that was, she quickly changed the subject. “Liandrin said thirteen Myrddraal are coming. We must escape before they arrive.”

Elayne found herself staring at that message scratched on the stone wall again:  _ The Light have mercy and let me die _ . Her hands clenched into fists. Her jaws cramped with the effort of not screaming those words.  _ Better to die. Better death than being turned to the Shadow, made to serve the Dark One! _

“We may be spared that much, at least,” Dani put in. “You said it takes thirteen of the Black Ajah as well. They are down to twelve now, thanks to Ilyena. She may have saved us all.” The normally stern woman’s voice broke at that last. Elayne climbed to her feet and padded across the floor on her bare feet to wrap Dani in her arms.

As she pressed their chests together, she was reminded of the metal and stone rings that hung between them. The Black Ajah had left them their Great Serpent rings in order to taunt them, and they hadn’t thought to examine the other ring that hung alongside Elayne’s. Still with one arm around Dani, she fished the  _ ter’angreal _ out and stared down at it as it lay heavily on her palm, all stripes and flecks of colour, a ring with only one edge.

“Why are you staring at that ring, Elayne?  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ will not help us now. Not unless you can dream a way out of here,” said Nynaeve.

Elayne frowned, wincing as it pulled her bruises. “I will take any chance. Their shielding won’t stop me reaching  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ . All I need do is sleep, not channel. I met Rand and Perrin there once. Perhaps I could call for help.”

“Perhaps,” Nynaeve said worriedly. “I will take any chance, too, but you saw Liandrin and the others the last time you used that ring. And you said they saw you, too. What if they are there again?”

“I doubt they can do anything worse to me there than they have been doing to us here. It is worth a try.”

Keestis, who had been sitting with her knees drawn up and her head resting between them, raised her tear-reddened eyes to look around. “What are they talking about?” she asked.

“The World of Dreams,” Shimoku said listlessly. “I’ll explain some other time.”

Clutching the  _ ter’angreal _ in her hand, Elayne lay down on the cold floor and closed her eyes. She could feel Nynaeve smoothing her hair, hear her murmuring softly. She began to hum a wordless lullaby. The soft sounds and touches soothed her, let her surrender to her weariness, let sleep come.

She wore red silk this time, but she barely noticed more than that. Soft breezes caressed her unbruised face, and sent the butterflies swirling above the wildflowers. Her thirst was gone, her aches. She reached out to embrace  _ saidar _ and was filled with the One Power. Even the triumph she felt at succeeding was small beside the surging of the Power through her.

Reluctantly she made herself release it, closed her eyes, and filled the emptiness with a perfect image of the Heart of the Stone. When she opened her eyes, she was there. But she was not alone.

The form of Joiya Byir stood before  _ Callandor _ , her shape so insubstantial that the surging light of the sword shone through her. The crystal sword no longer merely glittered with refracted light. In pulses it glowed, as if some light inside it were being uncovered, then covered and uncovered again. The Black sister started with surprise and spun to face Elayne. “How? You are shielded! Your Dreaming is at an end!”

Before the first words were out of the woman’s mouth, Elayne reached for  _ saidar _ again, wove the complicated flow of Spirit as she remembered it being used against her, and cut Joiya off from the Source. The Darkfriend’s eyes widened, those cruel eyes so incongruous in that kindly face, but Elayne was already weaving Air. The other woman’s form might seem like mist, but the bonds held it. It seemed to Elayne that there was no effort involved in holding both flows in their weaving. There was sweat on Joiya’s forehead as she walked closer.

“You have a  _ ter’angreal _ !” Fear was plain on the woman’s face, but her voice fought to hide it. “That must be it. A  _ ter’angreal _ that escaped us, and one that does not require channelling. Do you think it will do you any good, girl? Whatever you do here, it cannot affect what happens in the real world.  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ is a dream! When I wake, I will take your  _ ter’angreal _ from you myself. Be careful what you do, lest I have reason to be angry when I come to your cell.”

“Are you certain you will wake, Darkfriend?” Elayne said, mimicking the voice her mother used when sentencing criminals from the Lion Throne. “If your  _ ter’angreal _ requires channelling, why did you not wake as soon as I shielded you? Perhaps you cannot wake so long as you are shielded here. A woman once showed me a scar she received in  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ , Darkfriend. What happens here is still real when you wake.”

The sweat rolled down the Black sister’s smooth, ageless face, now. A few ideas on how to punish her flashed through Elayne’s mind, but she pushed them aside. Her friends were trapped, and finding a way to free them was the most important thing just then.

She tied off and set the flows of her weavings, leaving the Darkfriend trapped and shielded, before hurrying off into the forest of polished redstone columns. Once safely away from her, she pictured the dungeon they’d been so cruelly abused in but found that she could not make herself go back there, even in  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ . Instead, she tried to recall the corridors they’d been dragged through on their way to the cell that her body—her real body—now slept in.

And just like that, she was there.

Elayne had only a moment to be glad of her success, before the stone shook under her feet. The Stone shook; it rang. She caught her balance and stopped, listening. There was no more sound, no other tremor. Whatever had happened, it was over. She hurried on. A door of iron bars stood in her way, with a lock as big as her head. She channelled Earth before she reached it, and when she pushed against the bars, the lock tore in half.

She walked quickly across the chamber beyond it, trying not to look at the things hanging on the walls. Whips and iron pincers were the most innocuous. The Black Ajah would make use of those tomorrow, she did not doubt, if she failed to free herself and her friends. With a small shudder she pushed open a smaller iron gate and entered a corridor lined with rough wooden doors, rush torches burning at intervals in iron brackets; she felt almost as much relief at leaving those things behind as she did at finding what she sought. But which cell?

The wooden doors opened easily. Some were unlocked, and the locks on the others lasted no longer than that larger lock had earlier. But every cell was empty. Of course. No-one would dream themselves in this place. Any prisoner who managed to reach  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ would dream of a pleasanter place.

For a moment she felt something close to despair. She had wanted to believe that finding the right cell would make a difference. Even finding it could be impossible, though. This first corridor stretched on and on, and others joined it.

Suddenly she saw something flicker just ahead of her. A shape even less substantial than Joiya Byir had been. It had been a woman, though. She was sure of that. A woman seated on a bench beside one of the cell doors. The image flickered into being again, and was gone. There was no mistaking that slender neck and the pale, innocent-appearing face with its eyelids fluttering on the edge of sleep. Amico Nagoyin was drifting toward sleep, dreaming of her guard duties. And apparently toying drowsily with one of the stolen  _ ter’angreal _ .

She knew it was possible to cut a woman off from the True Source even if she had already embraced  _ saidar _ , but severing a weave already established was much harder than damming the flow before it began. She set the patterns of the weaving, readied them, making the threads of Spirit much stronger, this time, thicker and heavier, a denser weave with a cutting edge like a knife.

The wavering shape of the Darkfriend appeared again, and Elayne struck out with the flows of Air and Spirit. For an instant something seemed to resist the weaving of Spirit, and she forced it with all of her might. It slid into place.

Amico screamed. It was a thin sound, barely heard, as faint as she herself was, and she seemed almost like a shadow of what Joiya had been. Yet the bonds woven of Air held her; she did not vanish again. Terror twisted the Darkfriend’s lovely face; she seemed to be babbling, but her shouts were whispers too soft for Elayne to understand.

Tying and setting the weaves around the Black sister, Elayne turned her attentions to the cell door. Impatiently, she let Earth flood into the iron lock. It fell away in black dust, in a mist that dissolved completely before it struck the floor. She swung open the door, and was not surprised to find the cell empty except for one burning rush torch.

_ But Amico is bound, and the door is open _ .

For a moment she thought of what to do next. Then she stepped out of the dream ...

... and woke to all her bruises and aches and thirst, to the floor of the cell against her back. She looked over at the tightly shut cell door.  _ Of course. What happens to living things there may be real when they wake, but what I do to stone or iron or wood has no effect in the waking world _ .

Nynaeve was still kneeling beside her. “Whoever is out there,” she said, “screamed a few moments ago, but nothing else has happened. Did you find a way out?”

“We should be free to walk out,” Elayne said. “I shielded Amico and broke the lock.”

Dani shook her head. “I have been trying to embrace  _ saidar _ ever since you went to sleep. It is different, now, but I am still cut off.”

Elayne formed the emptiness inside her, became the rosebud opening to  _ saidar _ . The invisible wall was still there. It shimmered now. There were moments when she almost thought she could feel the True Source beginning to fill her with the Power. Almost. The shield wavered in and out of existence too fast for her to detect. It might as well have still been solid.

She stared at the other women. “I bound her. I shielded her. She is a living thing, not lifeless iron. She must be shielded still.”

“Something has happened to the shield set on us,” Dani said, “but Amico is still managing to hold it.”

Elayne grimaced. “I will have to try again.”

“Can you go to sleep again so soon?” Nynaeve asked.

“I will have to,” she sighed, and lay back down on the cold floor.

* * *

The wide door of iron bars stood open, and the room beyond seemed empty of life, but Mat entered cautiously. Sandar was still out in the hall, trying to peer both ways at once, certain that a High Lord, or maybe a hundred Defenders or so, would appear at any moment.

There were no men in the room now—and by the looks of the half-eaten meals on a long table, they had left hurriedly; no doubt because of the fighting above—and from the looks of the things on the walls, he was just as glad he did not have to meet any of them. Whips in different sizes and lengths, different thicknesses, with different numbers of tails. Pincers, and tongs, and clamps, and irons. Things that looked like metal boots, and gauntlets, and helmets, with great screws all over them as if to tighten them down. Things he could not even begin to guess the use of. If he had met the men who used these things, he thought he would surely have checked that they were dead before he walked away.

“Sandar!” he hissed. “Are you going to stay out there all bloody night!?” He hurried to the inner door—barred like the outer, but smaller—without waiting for an answer, and went through.

The hall beyond was lined by rough wooden doors, and lit by the same rush torches as the room he had just left. No more than twenty paces from him, a woman sat on a bench beside one of the doors, leaning back against the wall in a curiously stiff fashion. She turned her head slowly toward him at the sound of his boots grating on the stone. A pretty young woman. He wondered why she didn’t move more than her head, and why even that moved as if she were half-asleep.

_ Was she a prisoner? Out in the hall? But nobody with a face like that could be one of the people who uses the things on those walls _ . She did look almost asleep, with her eyes only partly open. And the suffering on that lovely face surely made her one of the tortured, not a torturer.

“Stop!” Sandar shouted behind him. “She is Aes Sedai! She is one of those who took the women you seek!”

Mat froze in the middle of a step, staring at the woman. He remembered Moiraine hurling balls of fire. He wondered if he could deflect a ball of fire with his quarterstaff. He wondered if his luck extended to outrunning Aes Sedai.

“Help me,” she said faintly. Her eyes still looked nearly asleep, but the pleading in her voice was fully awake. “Help me. Please!”

Mat blinked. She still had not moved a muscle below her neck. Cautiously, he stepped closer, waving to Sandar to stop his groaning about her being Aes Sedai. She moved her head to follow him. No more than that.

A large iron key hung at her belt. For a moment he hesitated. Aes Sedai, Sandar said.  _ Why doesn’t she move?  _ Swallowing, he eased the key free as carefully as if he were trying to take a piece of meat from a wolf’s jaws. She rolled her eyes toward the door beside her and made a sound like a cat that had just seen a huge dog come snarling into the room and knew there was no way out.

He didn’t understand it, but as long as she didn’t try to stop him opening that door, he did not care why she just sat there like a stuffed scarecrow. On the other hand, he wondered if there was something on the other side worth being afraid of.  _ If she is one of those who took Nynaeve and the others, it stands to reason she’s guarding them _ . Tears leaked from the woman’s eyes.  _ Only she looks like it’s a bloody Halfman in there _ . But there was only one way to find out. Propping his staff against the wall, he turned the key in the lock and flung open the door, ready to run if need be.

Nynaeve and a pretty, golden-haired woman were kneeling on the floor with Elayne apparently asleep between them. Half a dozen other women shared the cell with them, all of them wearing the same drab smocks and the same miserable expression. He gasped at the sight of Nynaeve’s swollen face. The women turned toward him as he opened the door—they were almost as battered as Nynaeve;  _ Burn me! Burn me! _ —looked at him, and gaped. Blinking, he saw past the bruises and the hangdog expressions, and realised that he knew some of the other women, too, if not well. They were Accepted. He’d tried his luck with several of them during his captivity in the Tower, but had been rebuffed.

_ A timely rescue might be enough to change my fortune there _ , Mat thought with a smile.

“Matrim Cauthon,” Nynaeve said, sounding shocked, “what under the Light are you doing here?”

“I came to bloody rescue you,” he said. “Burn me if I expected to be greeted as if I had come to steal a pie. You can tell me why you look as if you’d been fighting bears later, if you want. If Elayne cannot walk, I’ll carry her on my back. There are Aiel all over the Stone, or near enough, and either they are killing the bloody Defenders or the bloody Defenders are killing them, but whichever way it is, we had better get out of here while we bloody well can. If we can!”

“Mind your language,” Nynaeve told him. She gave him one of those disapproving stares women were so good at, but didn’t seem to have her full attention in it. She began shaking Elayne.

The Daughter-Heir’s eyelids fluttered open, and she groaned. “Why did you wake me? I wasn’t finished. Not that I can see how to finish. If I loose the bonds on her, she will wake and I’ll never catch her again. But if I do not, she cannot go all the way to sleep, and—” Her eyes fell on him and widened. “Matrim Cauthon, what under the Light are you doing here?”

“You tell her,” he told Nynaeve. “I am too busy trying to rescue you to watch my langu—” They were all staring beyond him, glaring as if they wished they had knives in their hands.

He spun, but all he saw was Juilin Sandar, looking as if he had swallowed a rotten plum whole. “They have cause,” he told Mat. “I ... I betrayed them. But I had to.” That was addressed past Mat to the women. “The one with many honey-coloured braids spoke to me, and I ... I had to do it.” For a long moment they continued to stare.

“Liandrin has vile tricks, Master Sandar,” Nynaeve said finally. “Perhaps you are not entirely to blame. We can apportion guilt later.”

“If that is all cleared up,” Mat said, “could we go now?” It was as clear as mud to him, but he was more interested in leaving right then.

The women limped after him into the hall, but they stopped around the woman on the bench. She rolled her eyes at them and whimpered. “Please. I will come back to the Light. I will swear to obey you. With the Oath Rod in my hands I will swear. Please do not—”

Mat jumped as Nynaeve suddenly reared back and swung a fist, knocking the woman completely off the bench. She lay there, her eyes closed all the way finally, but even lying on her side she was still in exactly the same position she had been in on the bench.

“It is gone,” Elayne said excitedly. She bent to rummage in the unconscious woman’s pouch. “Something changed about her when you hit her, Nynaeve. I do not know what, but I felt it.” When she straightened she was holding a little iron disk of some kind. It looked worthless to him.

A copper-skinned woman—Daniele, he thought her name was—nodded. “I felt it, too.”

“I would like to change every last thing about her,” Nynaeve said grimly. She took Elayne’s head in her hands; Elayne rose onto her toes, gasping. When Nynaeve took her hands away to put them on Daniele, Elayne’s bruises were gone.

Others among the Accepted were doing the same for each other. A little, curly-haired woman came and lay hands on Nynaeve, giving her what Mat had so often wished she’d get when he was younger: a taste of her own medicine.

A tall, willowy woman went to stand over the unconscious Aes Sedai, and stared down at her. Abruptly, she dropped to her knees atop the other woman and slapped her across the face as hard as she could. Mat gasped. A backhanded blow followed, and then another slap, another.

He was about to grab her and put a stop to it when Nynaeve’s hand closed on the woman’s shoulder. “That’ll do for now, Theodrin. I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve it, but we may need to ask her some questions later.” This Theodrin trembled under Nynaeve’s hand, but the slapping stopped at least.

“Blood and bloody ashes!” Mat growled. “What do you mean hitting a woman who couldn’t even move!” They all turned to look at him, and he made a strangled sound as the air seemed to turn to thick jelly around him. He lifted into the air, until his boots dangled a good pace above the floor.  _ Oh, burn me, the Power! Here I was afraid that Aes Sedai would use the bloody Power on me, and now the bloody women I’m rescuing do it! Burn me! _

“You do not understand,” Theodrin said. She was red-faced with such a mix of emotions that he could not tell what was what.

“Until you do understand,” Nynaeve said in a tight voice, “I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.”

Elayne contented herself with a glare that made him think of his mother going out to cut a switch.

Mat shivered. The One Power. More than anything, he hated having the Power used on him. He’d hated it even before Joline bonded him, and he hated it even more now.

“What I understand is that I got you out of something you couldn’t get yourselves out of and you all have as much gratitude as a bloody Taren Ferry man with a toothache!” he shouted. “Burn me! This is the last time I do a favour for any of you!”

“You are right,” Nynaeve said, and his boots suddenly hit the floor so hard his teeth jarred. But he could move again. “As much as it pains me to say it, Mat, you are right.”

He was tempted to answer something sarcastic, but there was barely enough apology in her voice as it was. “Now can we go? With the fighting going on, Sandar thinks he and I can take you out by a small gate near the river.”

“I am not leaving just yet, Mat,” Nynaeve said.

“We need to find Ilyena. And Mair,” added Daniele.

“All I want to do,” Elayne said, “is pound Chesmal Emry till she squeals, but I will settle for any of them.”

“Asne. I’m going to skin her alive,” hissed a slender, dark-skinned girl who would have been pretty is she wasn’t so murderous.

“And Temaile,” a chubby, yellow-haired woman with an impressive pair of knockers choked. “She needs to pay for what she did.”

“Are you all deaf?” he growled. “There is a battle going on out there! I came here to rescue you and I mean to rescue you.” Elayne patted his cheek as she walked by him. Nynaeve merely sniffed. The others ignored him entirely. He stared after them with his mouth hanging open. “Why didn’t you say something?” he growled at the thief-catcher.

“I saw what speaking earned you,” Sandar said simply. “I am no fool.”

“Well, I am not staying in the middle of a battle!” he shouted at the women. They were just disappearing through the small, barred door. “I’m leaving, do you hear?” They did not even look back.  _ Probably get themselves killed out there! Somebody will stick a sword in them while they’re looking the other way! _

With a snarl, he put his quarterstaff across his shoulder ... and froze in place. His feet itched to run after them—He hadn’t come this far to let them die now—but he’d told them, hadn’t he? Not another bloody favour, not if they were going to treat him like that. Nynaeve hadn’t even apologised.

“Burn me!” he growled. “It’s not my problem. If they want to stick their hands in the fire, then let them. Why should I have to risk my neck?” He stalked back down the corridor. “Are you going to just stand there?” he called to the thief-catcher.

Sandar caught up to him in the room with the whips. The women were already gone, but Mat had a feeling they would not be too hard to find.  _ Just find the men bloody hanging in midair! Bloody women! Bloody Aes Sedai! Well, you’ve got another promise right there. No more favours! In future, you can fix your own damned messes! _

He quickened his pace to a trot, and when he came to the first corridor that held a floating, wide-eyed Defender, Mat turned down the other path instead.


	33. What Is Written in Prophecy

CHAPTER 30: What Is Written in Prophecy

Rand entered the chamber slowly, walking among the great polished redstone columns he remembered from his dreams. Silence filled the shadows, yet something called to him. And something flashed ahead, a momentary light throwing back shadow, a beacon. He stepped out beneath a great dome, and saw what he sought.  _ Callandor _ , hanging hilt down in midair, waiting for no hand but that of the Dragon Reborn. As it revolved, it broke what little light there was into splinters, and now and then it flared as if with a light of its own. Calling him. Waiting for him.

_ If I  _ am _ the Dragon Reborn. If I am not just some half-mad man cursed with the ability to channel, a puppet dancing for Moiraine and the White Tower _ .

“Take it, Lews Therin. Take it, Kinslayer.”

He spun to face the voice. The tall man with close-cropped white hair who stepped from the shadows among the columns was familiar to him. Rand had no idea who he was, this fellow in a red silk coat with black stripes down its puffy sleeves and black breeches tucked into elaborately silver-worked boots. He did not know the man, but he had seen him in his dreams. “You put them in a cage,” he said. “Nynaeve and Elayne. In my dreams. You kept putting them in a cage, and hurting them.”

The man made a dismissive gesture of his hand. “They are less than nothing. Perhaps one day, when they have been trained, but not now. I confess surprise that you cared enough to make them useful. But you were ever a fool, ever ready to follow your heart before power. You came too soon, Lews Therin. Now you must do what you are not yet ready for, or else die. Die, knowing you have left these women you care for in my hands.” He seemed to be waiting for something, expectant. “I mean to use them more, Kinslayer. They will serve me, serve my power. And that will hurt them far more than anything they have suffered before.”

Behind Rand,  _ Callandor _ flashed, throwing one pulse of warmth against his back. “Who are you?”

“You do not remember me, do you?” The white-haired man laughed suddenly. “I do not remember you, either, looking this way. Did Ishamael speak the truth? He was ever one to lie when it gained him an inch or a second. Do you remember nothing, Lews Therin?”

“A name!” Rand demanded. “What is your name?”

“Call me Be’lal.” The Forsaken scowled when Rand did not react to the name. “Take it!” Be’lal snapped, throwing a hand toward the sword behind Rand. “Once we rode to war side by side, and for that I give you a chance. A bare chance, but a chance to save yourself, a chance to save those I mean to make my pets. Take the sword, countryman. Perhaps it will be enough to help you survive me.”

Rand laughed. “Do you believe you can frighten me so easily, Forsaken? Ba’alzamon himself has hunted me. Do you think I will cower now for you?”

Suddenly there was a sword in Be’lal’s hands, a sword with a blade carved from black fire. “Take it! Take  _ Callandor _ ! Three thousand years, while I lay imprisoned, it has waited there. For you. One of the most powerful  _ sa’angreal _ we ever made. Take it, and defend yourself, if you can!”

He moved toward Rand as if to drive him back toward  _ Callandor _ , but Rand raised his own hands— _ saidin _ filled him; sweet rushing flow of the Power; stomach-wrenching vileness of the taint—and he held a sword wrought from red flame, a sword with a heron-mark on its fiery blade. He stepped into the forms Lan had taught him till he flowed from one to the next as if in a dance. Parting the Silk. Water Flows Downhill. Wind and Rain. Blade of black fire met blade of red in showers of sparks, roars like white-hot metal shattering.

Rand came back smoothly into a guard stance, trying not to let his sudden uncertainty show. A heron stood on the black blade, too, a bird so dark as to be nearly invisible. Once he had faced a man with a heron-mark blade of steel, and barely survived. He knew that he himself had no real right to the blademaster’s mark; it had been on the sword his father had given him, and when he thought of a sword in his hands, he thought of that sword. Once he had embraced death, as the Warder had taught, but this time, he knew, his death would be final. Be’lal was better than he with the sword. Stronger. Faster. A true blademaster.

The Forsaken laughed, amused, swinging his blade in quick flourishes to either side of him; the black fire roared as if swift passage through the air quickened it. “You were a greater swordsman, once, Lews Therin,” he said mockingly. “Do you remember when we took that tame sport called swords and learned to kill with it, as the old volumes said men once had? Do you remember even one of those desperate battles, even one of our dire defeats? Of course not. You remember nothing, do you? This time you have not learned enough. This time, Lews Therin, I will kill you.” Be’lal’s mockery deepened. “Perhaps if you take  _ Callandor _ , you might extend your life a little longer. A little longer.”

He came forward slowly, almost as if to give Rand time to do just that, turn and race to  _ Callandor _ , to the Sword That Cannot Be Touched, to take it. But the doubts were still strong in Rand.  _ Callandor _ could only be touched by the Dragon Reborn. He had allowed them to proclaim him so for a hundred reasons that seemed to leave him no choice at the time. But was he truly the Dragon Reborn? If he raced to touch  _ Callandor _ in truth, not in a dream, would his hand meet an invisible wall while Be’lal cut him down from behind?

Rand met the Forsaken with the sword he knew, the blade of fire wrought with  _ saidin _ . He came in high with The Falling Leaf, only to have his blade swept aside by Watered Silk. Using The Cat Dances on the Wall, he was able to deflect the counterstroke before striking at his opponent’s legs instead, but again Be’lal parried his attack with ease, using The Boar Rushed Downhill to drive Rand back.

When Be’lal pressed his advantage, Rand saw the chance to try the same move that had felled the last blademaster he’d fought. Dropping suddenly to one knee, he slashed horizontally, but this time surprise and luck were not on his side. The River Undercuts the Bank, as the risky move was called, nearly lost him his head, and he had to throw himself inelegantly to one side with black flame brushing his hair. Rolling to his feet, he staggered backwards away from the centred blows that characterised Stones Falling Down the Mountain.

Both of them were blademasters, but Rand was afforded the title only due to what was, in his own view, a technicality. He’d gotten lucky once, in a duel with a real blademaster, and had managed to kill the man. That made him a blademaster, too, by Valgardan custom. For what little that was worth. Be’lal, it would seem, had earned the title the right way.

It became more and more obvious that Rand was no match for him as, methodically, deliberately, Be’lal drove him back in a spiral that slowly tightened on  _ Callandor _ .

Shouts echoed among the columns, screams, the clash of steel, but Rand barely heard. He and Be’lal were no longer alone in the Heart of the Stone. Men in breastplates and rimmed helmets fought with swords against shadowy, veiled shapes that darted among the columns with short spears stabbing. Some of the soldiers formed a rank; arrows flashing out of the dimness took them in the throat, the face, and they died in their line. Rand hardly noticed the fighting, even when men fell dead within paces of him. His own fight was too desperate; it took all of his concentration. Wet warmth trickled down his side. The old wound was breaking open.

He stumbled suddenly, not seeing the dead man at his feet until he was lying on his back on the stone floor.

Be’lal raised his blade of black fire, snarling. “Take it! Take  _ Callandor _ and defend yourself! Take it, or I will kill you now! If you will not take it, I will slay you!”

“No!”

Even Be’lal gave a start at the command in that woman’s voice. The Forsaken stepped back out of the arc of Rand’s sword and turned his head to frown at Moiraine as she came striding through the battle, her eyes fixed on him, ignoring the screaming deaths around her. “I thought you were neatly out of the way, woman. No matter. You are only an annoyance. A stinging fly. A biteme. I will cage you with the others, and teach you to serve the Shadow with your puny powers,” he finished with a contemptuous laugh, and raised his free hand.

Moiraine had not stopped or slowed while he spoke. She was no more than thirty paces from him when he moved his hand, and she raised both of hers as well.

“Warning, boss! Balefire detected!” a female voice said from nowhere.

There was an instant of surprise on the Forsaken’s face, and he had time to scream “No!” as he desperately threw himself aside.

Then a bar of white fire hotter than the sun shot from the Aes Sedai’s hands, a glaring rod that banished all shadows. It shot through the empty space where Be’lal had been standing, its brightness almost blinding Rand as he stared up at it. Before it, one of the redstone pillars became a shape of shimmering motes, specks dancing in the light for less than a heartbeat before they were reduced to nothingness. On it surged, only to disappear as suddenly as it had appeared when it touched the invisible wall that protected  _ Callandor _ .

There was silence in the chamber as that bar of light vanished, silence except for the moans of the wounded. The fighting had stopped dead, veiled men and men in breastplates alike standing as if stunned.

Fury and fear warred on Be’lal’s face as he got back to his feet. “My wards!” he growled, shooting a glance at the crystal sword. “Labrys, activate my  _ valdarhei _ .”

“He is right concerning one thing,” Moiraine said, as coolly serene as if she were standing in a meadow. She did not take her eyes off the Forsaken as she spoke. “You must take  _ Callandor _ . He meant for you to disable the wards that protect it while triggering his own, he meant to take it for himself and slay you with it, but it is your birthright. Better by far that you knew more before your hand held that hilt, yet you have come to the point now, and there is no further time for learning. Take it, Rand.”

“Fools! I will kill you both, and find another way to free the  _ sa’angreal _ ,” Be’lal said. No sooner had he spoken than he was forced to lunge to the side to avoid another bar of that liquid, all-destroying force. Snarling, he struck back at Moiraine, causing sparks to fly from the shield she’d woven around herself. The sparks doubled in number on his next attack, and tripled on the one after that. No more Balefire flew from her hands. As Rand knew, it took a lot of strength to form that weave, and Moiraine was not as strong as he was. Or as strong as Be’lal.

Rand regained his feet as Moiraine’s defence began to crumble. His head swivelled between her and the sword revolving slowly in the centre of that great chamber, pulsing with light. He had fared no better against Be’lal than she was, less so even. Together they might defeat him. Or ...

Whips of black lightning curled around Moiraine; she screamed as they lifted her, hurled her to slide along the floor like a sack until she came up against one of the columns.

“I will take my time with you, little Aes Sedai,” Be’lal snarled at her still form. “You have disrupted plans that were long in the making.”

As they fought, Rand sprinted desperately toward  _ Callandor _ , still glittering and flashing in midair. He did not know whether he could reach it, or touch it if he did, but he was sure it was his only chance.

He knew the moment that Be’lal’s attention returned to him, for the Forsaken screamed out, “No! You can’t have it!”

Be’lal’s blow struck him in the back as he leapt, struck the shield of  _ saidin _ he had placed around himself, pushing him onwards towards his fate, burning cloth and flesh where it pierced his defence. Rand roared in pain. His hand closed convulsively. On  _ Callandor _ ’s hilt.

The One Power surged through him, a torrent greater than he could believe, from  _ saidin _ into the sword. The crystal blade shone brighter than even Moiraine’s Balefire had. It was impossible to look at, impossible any longer to see that it was a sword, only that light blazed in his fist. He fought the flow, wrestled with the implacable tide that threatened to carry him, all that was really him, into the sword with it. For a heartbeat that took centuries he hung, wavering, balanced on the brink of being scoured away like sand before a flash flood. With infinite slowness the balance firmed. It was still as though he stood barefoot on a razor’s edge above a bottomless drop, yet something told him this was the best that could be expected. To channel this much of the Power, he must dance on that sharpness as he had danced the forms of the sword.

Rand landed on his knees and spun in place to lash out blindly at that which attacked him. The flames that licked at his borrowed, Atha’an Miere coat he doused instinctively. Smoke rose from his back as he stared at the Heart’s plain stone floor in awe.  _ Such power ... I never imagined ... _

Slowly, he looked up to face Be’lal, on whose brow drops of sweat could now be seen. “You ... you don’t even know how to use it,” he said, but the arrogance and anger of before were gone now, and his voice quavered uncertainly.

“Don’t I?” Rising, Rand swung  _ Callandor _ as if he were striking at something in front of him. The white light obscuring the blade extended, blazed ahead, and sheared through the redstone column nearest Be’lal. The polished stone parted like sliced silk, and a deep gouge appeared in the ground near Be’lal’s feet. The Forsaken himself remained unharmed, his arms outstretched and a complex weave of  _ saidin _ surrounding him, yet the sweat was running down his cheeks now.

“Watch it, boss! Defensive limits are being exceeded,” the disembodied voice said.

“I know!” he snapped.

The severed column trembled; part of it tore loose and dropped from the ceiling, smashing into huge, jagged chunks on the floor. As the dust cleared and the rumbling faded, he heard beyond it the sound of boots on stone. Running. Be’lal was running. From him.

“I am the hunter now,” Rand said, and ran in pursuit.

Off to the side he could see Lan kneeling over Moiraine. He hoped she was still alive. Raine’s golden eyes followed him as he ran after Be’lal, but Rand could spare no time to greet her, or wonder why she was here. Or why there were Aiel, as the hooded men he’d seen earlier now proved to be, fighting the Defenders of the Stone. For once, a Forsaken was afraid of him. For once, victory was within his grasp as surely as  _ Callandor _ was, blazing bright, singing to him. He ran on.

The tall archway leading out of the Heart collapsed as he reached it, the entire wall falling in clouds of dust and rock as if to bury him, but he threw the Power at it, and all became dust floating in the air. He ran on. He was not sure what he had done, or how, but he had no time to think on it. He ran after Be’lal’s retreating footsteps, echoing down the halls of the Stone.

Flames leaped from the floor beneath his feet, spurted from the walls, the ceiling, furious jets that flashed tapestries and rugs, tables and chests to wisps of ash, flung ornaments and lamps ahead of them as drops of molten, burning gold; he smashed the fires flat, hardened them into a red glaze on the rock.

He could not even begin to imagine what it was that he did. The One Power raged inside him till he barely knew himself, till he barely was himself, till what was himself almost did not exist. His precarious stability teetered. To either side lay the endless fall, obliteration by the Power that coursed through him into the sword. Only in the dance along the razor’s sharp edge was there even an uncertain safety.  _ Callandor _ shone in his fist until it seemed he carried the sun. Dimly within him, fluttering like a candle flame in a storm, was the surety that holding  _ Callandor _ , he could do anything. Anything.

Water filled the halls from top to bottom, thick and black as the bottom of the sea, choking off breath. He made it air again, unknowingly, and ran on, and suddenly the air gained weight until it seemed every inch of his skin supported a mountain, squeezing in from all directions. In the instant before he was crushed to nothingness he chose tides out of the flood of Power raging through him—he did not know how or which or why; it was too fast for thought or knowing—and the pressure vanished. Rand fought back with instinct and guesses and chance, fought and ran down that knife edge in perfect balance with the Power, the tool and weapon that would consume him utterly if he faltered. He pursued Be’lal, and the ground beneath his boots pulled at him as if every pound suddenly weighed a thousand, then all weight vanished so that a step left him spinning in midair. He sprang each trap and ran on; what Be’lal twisted to destroy him, he made right without being aware of how. Vaguely he knew that in some way he had brought things back into natural balance, forced them into line with his own dance down that impossibly thin divide between existence and nothingness, but that knowledge was distant. All his awareness lay in the pursuit, the hunt, the death that must end it.

* * *

Be’lal knew he still had a chance to win it all, if he could only hold al’Thor off long enough. He spun net after net as he ran through the crude halls of the Stone of Tear, not quite hoping that they would stop someone so tumefied with  _ saidin _ , yet still cursing aloud each time the ignorant savage blundered through one without taking harm. There was no justice! How could he compete with such raw power? Even as distant as he was, the sheer amount of  _ saidin _ al’Thor was holding made it feel as though he was looming at Be’lal’s shoulder, as though a heavy blow was falling, unnervingly poised, ready to land at any moment.

Spinning and setting one last, particularly devilish ward, he sprinted into the section of the Stone that he’d made the Tairens set aside for his personal use. His servants would be there.  _ They had better be! Or else I’ll give them all to the Myrddraal! _

The wealth and luxury that surrounded him, he ignored. He was a child of what these savages called the Age of Legends. What they thought to be wealth and luxury was merely the normal state of affairs to him.

Liandrin and her circle broke off their conversation at his arrival. Eyes wide and, in some few cases, mouths falling open, they stared at his dishevelled and desperate state.

“Great Master? What is the—” the sulky little doll began.

“Silence! Link, all thirteen of you, and quickly! Prepare a shield and pray you can place it quickly enough, for if you fail me now you will pray for death later.”

“We can deal with al’Meara and—” said another of the so-called Aes Sedai, but Liandrin’s suddenly raised hand silenced her.

There was something much too knowing in her dark eyes for Be’lal’s taste. “If al’Thor is here, and a full Circle, it is needed to stop him, then you must join us ... Great Master,” she said, an eager smile tugging at her rosebud lips. “Berylla, she was killed by the Accepted earlier, so we are only twelve ...”

“Killed? Why was I not informed of this!? What manner of incompetent loses to a mere student?”

“Ah, boss? The kid’s coming closer,” Labrys said then.

Be’lal ground his teeth. He longed to lash out and kill Liandrin and her sisters, as much to punish their failure as to hide his own, yet they were assets that might yet have some value. As he struggled to get himself under control, he reached out with  _ saidin _ and grabbed one of the men, the Warders. They were, of course, much less useful than a channeler. He wrapped the man in solid Air, which he began to tighten around him. Soon the man was screaming, and so was one of the Aes Sedai, a short, thin, dark-skinned woman whose name he hadn’t troubled to learn.

“Thirteen of you I ordered. Thirteen to shield him, if I needed him shielded. Thirteen. Not twelve! Not fourteen! Thirteen! The exact number necessary to shield any channeler, regardless of strength! Did you think I chose that number at random!?” His roar was so loud that it could easily be heard over the dying man’s scream. Flesh and bone cracked and blood leaked out to stain the floor, but Be’lal kept tightening the weave. He needed to let out some of his tension so that he could think clearly.

“There are still thirteen of us, Great Master,” Liandrin purred. Though she was cowering before him, there was a sly and greedy glint in her eye that he had seen far too often among subordinates during the War of the Powers. To enter a Circle with her and her sisters, he would have to put himself in their power and trust that they would transfer that power to him later. Be’lal found he was unwilling to do that.

The man’s screams had stopped, and the dark woman was weeping quietly. It made it much easier to hear the sound of boots striking stone, and the heavy breathing of their wearer.

“It is over, Forsaken!” al’Thor called.

To anyone else’s eyes he might have appeared to be no more than a madman carrying a glowing stick in his hand, but to Be’lal he was a thing out of nightmare. Thick cables of  _ saidin _ surrounded him, forming a pulsing, writhing tangle, interweaving with each other without rhyme or reason, forming weaves with no discernable purpose, if purpose they even had. The threads of Power made so tangled a thicket that he almost couldn’t see the man at their centre, just his face, peering wild-eyed out through a gap in that great mass. Having no physical presence until woven correctly, the threads of  _ saidin _ extended far beyond the confines of the room they stood in. They wormed their way in and out of the stone, walls and floor and ceiling all. How far they extended Be’lal could not say. Even now they could be rooting under his feet, about to sprout death.

“We are ready,” Liandrin said.

Al’Thor grinned madly. “Good.” He raised  _ Callandor _ and pointed its tip at them all.

Be’lal spun his answer to that challenge with great haste, not caring one bit if al’Thor saw what they had all agreed he should never see. A bright line appeared in the air beside him, and expanded quickly to become a rectangular gateway to another place.

“Kill him!” he ordered the Black Ajah. Then he leaped through the gateway to safety, and hastily closed it behind him. It was as warm as Tear, the place he had fled to, but farther away than the Tairens would ever have imagined. The dry land was free of human habitation and prying eyes. Even the animals were few and far between.

Be’lal sighed in relief. He didn’t really think Liandrin’s Circle would be able to defeat al’Thor, not while he had  _ Callandor _ in his hands. He wasn’t sure anyone could unless they had a  _ sa’angreal _ of their own. But at least she and the others wouldn’t be able to tell anyone of this humiliation.

“Well, don’t say you didn’t try,” Labrys said consolingly.

Be’lal’s face darkened. “Shut up, you worthless machine!”

* * *

Rand frowned at the gathered women. They were all of various shapes and colours, but there was still a uniformity about them. It was the faces. The ageless faces.

“Aes Sedai,” he hissed. “Are you with him?” When he looked to the place Be’lal had been just a moment ago, he saw something in the air, like the afterimage a flash of lightning left on the eye, or a message written in chalk and not properly erased. It was a very complex message, but he almost thought he could understand it.

Fascinated, he missed the Aes Sedai’s response, but an urgent whisper from another of their number pierced his enchantment. “Be’lal fled from him! Do not be a fool!”

He glanced over. They were backing up, leaving a dead man on the floor between them. Rand’s frown deepened when he realised that he knew one of them. It was hard to forget the pretty, honey-haired woman with the poisonous attitude who glared back at him like a cornered cat.

“Liandrin. Of the Black Ajah. You gave Elayne to the Seanchan to be made a slave.” Leaving the half-studied sum behind, he raised  _ Callandor _ and stalked after her. “You won’t get away with that.”

“Run!” Liandrin shouted. She took her red skirts in hand and did just that, darting toward the far door and the intersection beyond it.

Still balancing on the razor’s edge between destruction and death, Rand wove a shield and pushed it into place around her ... Or tried to. His mouth fell open when the shield failed to cut her connection to  _ saidar _ . She was weaker than Elayne, both she and Nynaeve had told him so. There was no way she should be able to resist his shield, not when Elayne herself had been unable to. Yet he couldn’t deny the truth of his own eyes.  _ Maybe she has a  _ sa’angreal _ , too _ .

Something unknown touched the outer edge of his weavings, and Rand lashed out mindlessly in response. Whatever the Black Ajah had been trying to do, the mixing of their weaves with his caused an explosion that wrecked much of the opulence and scrubbed away that fascinating diagram before Rand could properly memorise it. It didn’t harm him, of course, not with  _ Callandor _ in his hands. He ran forward into the flames and smoke, which became a cool breeze simply because he wanted them to be.

The Black Ajah had fled the room and were running down the far corridor now, with Liandrin in the lead.

“There they go!” he heard a woman call as he ran after them. She sounded like Nynaeve, which Rand would have been willing to dismiss as madness if he hadn’t, on reaching the exit, found that very woman barrelling towards him.

Nynaeve had no need to gather her skirts like the Aes Sedai had. The rough smock she was wearing barely reached her knees. She skidded to a halt at the sight of him, wincing at the scrape of stone against her bare feet. “Rand!? What in the Light are you doing here?”

She wasn’t alone, another group of women, as varied in shape and colouring as the last, ran behind her. Elayne was among them, as roughly clad as Nynaeve, but looking as beautiful as ever. Their eyes met and her cheeks coloured. Her efforts to pull the smock’s hem further downwards only drew his eyes to her legs, long and pale and smooth looking.

His control wavering, Rand looked away and tried to steady his grip on his thoughts and on  _ saidin _ alike. “I came for this,” he said distractedly, and casually waved  _ Callandor _ in Nynaeve’s direction.

“The Sword That Is Not a Sword,” Elayne gasped. She stared at the crystal blade in Rand’s hand. “The Sword That Cannot Be Touched.”

“What do you be saying?” squeaked one of the other women, her grey eyes wide.

“Well it looks pretty touched to me. What do you think that means?” Nynaeve said grimly. “I won’t apologise for keeping this from you, Emara. Or the rest of you. It was unlikely anyone would believe it. I barely believe it myself. But Rand here is the Dragon Reborn, Light help us.”

More gasps, some whispered curses, and a lot of stammered words followed.

“Fortune!”

“Then ...”

“But that means—”

“Yes. Tarmon Gai’don is coming,” Nynaeve cut into the chorus, her voice matter-of-fact. “Which makes it all the more important that we stop the Black Ajah. Now stop gaping and come with me. You, too, Rand. Stop staring at Elayne’s legs and make yourself useful.”

Rand laughed, and the Stone of Tear laughed with him, shaking the few remaining tapestries from the walls.

Nynaeve had already taken a few steps down the corridor, but she stopped and turned back then, her dark eyes suddenly full of concern, and not over the sudden need to shift her balance. “Are you ... feeling okay, Rand?”

The razor cut so sweetly into his feet. It would cut him in half eventually. But he could sew himself together again. With  _ Callandor _ , he could do anything. “I’m as right as rainwater,” he said.

One of the women with her, a copper-skinned beauty with cheekbones that could cut glass, pushed forward to get a look past Rand at the quarters he’d just left. The explosion had left little of the furniture intact, but the dozen or so doors that opened onto that central chamber were still intact. “Was anyone else in there, besides Liandrin’s traitors?” she asked him. Even as he struggled to control  _ Callandor _ , Rand couldn’t help but be impressed by her nerve. Few among his closest friends had been so calm on finding out what he was. And a stranger like her had much less reason to trust him.

“Just Be’lal, but he’s gone now,” he said.

She blinked at that, but gave herself a shake and pushed past him into the room. “She wasn’t in the dungeons. Where else would they have taken her?” Some of the other women went with her, though they avoided his eye and kept as far away from him as the close quarters would allow.

Nynaeve, who’d been looking back and forth between Rand and the corridor Liandrin had fled down, growled wordlessly. After a while, she sighed and said, “Why don’t you put that thing down and let me get a look at you, Rand. Is that blood on your coat? It’s not the old wound, is it?”

Prying his fingers away from  _ Callandor _ ’s hilt proved disturbingly hard. The flow of  _ saidin _ didn’t want to end. He didn’t want it to end. He was safe with  _ Callandor _ . Nothing that he didn’t want to happen could ever happen while he was holding it. But Nynaeve was murmuring soothing words, and plucking at his coat to see the burns underneath. He was safe with her, too. And ... and more like himself. With more of an effort than he cared for, he was able to straighten out his fingers and leave  _ Callandor _ propped against the wall.

Nynaeve’s gentle touch made him shiver. “The wound has broken open again,” she muttered. “And those burns will leave some ugly scars if we let them. Can’t have that.” The shiver became a shudder, and Rand knew the uncanny feeling of his flesh rushing to knit itself back together. He didn’t like having the One Power used on him without permission, not since Alanna had tricked him with an offer of Healing only to bond him instead. But he found that, if it was Nynaeve, he could endure it. She would never anything to hurt him.

All his hurts disappeared in a matter of moments, and even the incessant itching that Tomira’s salve hadn’t quite gotten rid of came to a welcome end. Rand sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

“Every time I see you, you’re in the middle of some new disaster,” she said sadly. His hand rose toward her but she skipped away before he could touch her cheek. “Liandrin is well and truly gone by now, burn her. I suppose all we can do is regroup. Have you found—”

“ILYENA!”

Rand jumped at hearing that name shouted in grief. It echoed in his soul as much as in his ears. From nowhere, grief flooded his breast until he wanted to howl along with the nameless woman. The feeling shocked him as much with its alienness as its intensity.

“Ilyena, what happened?”

Elayne and her roughly clad friends rushed in the voice’s direction. Rand and Nynaeve followed, but more slowly.

In one of the rooms that opened onto that ruined chamber, a yellow-haired girl sat in a corner with her arms wrapped around her knees. She was naked, but her pale limbs and the fall of her long hair shielded her from prying eyes. Her face could not be seen, and the gentle questions being whispered by the copper-skinned woman who’d pushed past him received no answers.

The room she sat in was darker by far than the lack of torches could make it. Cruel metal instruments hung on the walls and sat on the tables. Lavish as the furnishings outside had been, there was nothing of comfort in this room, just bare stone floors and cold steel cruelties. Bloodstains could be seen everywhere, on the tools of torture, on the sitting girl, and the stone floor, but most of all on the body lying in the middle of the room.

Rand didn’t know her, the woman staring fixedly at the ceiling with the pain of her last moments etched forever upon her round face, but Nynaeve and the others obviously did. Tears fell, women sobbed, and oaths of vengeance were sworn, none more fiercely than by Nynaeve.

Elayne’s nose ran when she cried, he discovered, and her fair face went very red. She still looked beautiful to him though.

His discomfort was intense. He felt an intruder in that place, as if he was spying on their grief, and preying upon this Ilyena’s vulnerability. Rand slunk away and reclaimed  _ Callandor _ . No-one spoke to him as he left.

Back the way he had come, he went; back to do it all over again. He held the Sword That Is Not a Sword before him in both hands and stared down at it. It looked as clear as glass could be, yet felt like steel. It was slightly curved and sharpened on only one side, like Tam’s sword had been, but he felt nothing of the possessiveness and esteem for it that he’d felt for that blade. He felt only dread.

_ Light, I AM the Dragon Reborn! The breaker of nations, the Breaker of the World. _

As he drew closer to the Heart of the Stone, he found men still fighting, Tairens and Aiel locked together in mortal combat. What they were fighting over, he did not know. Or care.

_ No! I will END the breaking, end the killing! I will MAKE it end! _

Striding out into the centre of the great chamber, he raised  _ Callandor _ above his head and drew  _ saidin _ through it once more. Silver lightning crackled from the blade, jagged streaks arching toward the great dome above. “Stop!” he shouted. The fighting ceased; men stared at him in wonder, over black veils, from beneath the rims of round helmets. “I am Rand al’Thor!” he called, so his voice rang through the chamber. “I am the Dragon Reborn!”  _ Callandor _ shone in his grasp. “Throw down your weapons and kneel! Or face my wrath!”

One by one, veiled men and helmeted, they knelt to him, crying, “The Dragon is Reborn! The Dragon is Reborn!”


	34. People of the Dragon

CHAPTER 31: People of the Dragon

Throughout the city of Tear people woke with the dawn, speaking of the dreams they had had, dreams of the Dragon battling the Shadow in the Heart of the Stone, and when their eyes rose to the great fortress of the Stone, they beheld a banner waving from its greatest height. Across a field of white flowed a sinuous form like a great serpent scaled in scarlet and gold, but with a golden lion’s mane and four legs, each tipped with five golden claws. Men came, stunned and frightened, from the Stone to speak in hushed tones of what had happened in the night, and men and women thronged the streets, weeping as they shouted the fulfilment of Prophecy.

“The Dragon!” they shouted. “Al’Thor! The Dragon! Al’Thor!”

Tam stood silently in their midst, like a dull, craggy rock around which the stream was forced to split. He had, during his service in the Illianer Companions, fought two bitter wars against Tear. Yet the fall of their fabled fortress brought him no satisfaction, only dread. There would be no hiding now. The world would hear of this. And of his son’s name.

Rand had asked for his advice on what to do, when he’d come home and confessed what he was. Tam hadn’t known what to say then. It was Rand’s job, not Tam’s. He shouldn’t—couldn’t!—interfere. That was still true. But, surrounded by that crazed throng, his resolve proved weaker than his worry.  _ If he asks me, I’ll help. But only if he asks. It’s the least I owe him _ .

* * *

“Al’Thor! The Dragon! Al’Thor!”

Peering through an arrowslit high on the side of the Stone, Mat shook his head as he listened to the chorus rising out of the city in waves.  _ Well, maybe he is _ . He was still having a hard enough time coming to grips with Rand really being there.

Everyone in the Stone seemed to agree with the people below, or if they did not, they were not letting on. He had seen Rand just once since the night before, striding along a hall with  _ Callandor _ in his hand, surrounded by a dozen veiled Aiel and trailing a cloud of Tairens, a knot of Defenders of the Stone and most of the few surviving High Lords. The High Lords, at least, seemed to think Rand would need them to help him rule the world; the Aiel kept everyone back with sharp looks, though, and spears if need be. They surely believed Rand was the Dragon, though they called him He Who Comes With the Dawn. There were nearly two hundred Aiel in the Stone. They had lost a third of their numbers in the fight, but they had killed or captured ten times as many Defenders.

As he turned from the arrowslit, his eyes brushed across Rhuarc. There was a tall stand at one end of the room, carved and polished upright wheels of some pale, dark-striped wood with shelves slung between them so all of the shelves would stay flat as the wheels were revolved. Each shelf held a large book, bound in gold, covers set with sparkling gems. The Aiel had one of the books open and was reading.  _ Some sort of essays _ , Mat thought.  _ Who would have thought an Aiel would read books? Who’d have thought an Aiel could bloody read? _

Rhuarc glanced in his direction, all cold blue eyes and level stare. Mat looked away hastily, before the Aiel could read his thoughts on his face.  _ At least he is not veiled, thank the Light! Burn me, that Aviendha nearly took my head off when I asked her if she could do any dances without spears _ . Ayla and Lidya presented another problem. They were certainly pretty and more than friendly, but he could not manage to talk to one without the other. The male Aiel seemed to think his efforts to get one of them alone were funny, and for that matter, so did Ayla and Lidya.  _ Women are odd, but Aiel women make odd seem normal! _

The great table in the middle of the room, ornately carved and gilded on edges and thick legs, had been meant for gatherings of the High Nobles. Moiraine sat in one of the throne like chairs, with the Crescent Banner of Tear worked into its towering back in gilt and polished carnelian and pearlshell. Nynaeve and Elayne sat close by her.

He avoided looking at Elayne. She hadn’t been very happy with Mat last night, after she’d come and told him about Mair’s death. It had only been a brief fling. So he hadn’t broken down crying in front of her. Did that make him a monster? From the cold way she’d looked at him, you’d have thought so.  _ Blood and ashes! As if I’m not sorry she’s gone. I am! That doesn’t mean I have to start bawling about it! _

“I still cannot believe Tam is here in Tear,” Nynaeve was saying. “Are you sure he is all right?”

Mat shook his head. He would have expected Tam to have been up in the Stone last night, what with his son being there, fighting a bloody Forsaken, if Moiraine could be believed.

“He was well when I left him.” Moiraine’s voice was serene. “Whether he still is, I do not know. One of our companions is in some considerable danger, and he may have put himself into it, also.”

“I doubt that. He has a mite of sense, usually, more than most men. What sort of danger?” said Nynaeve.

“Nothing that need concern you,” the Aes Sedai said calmly. “I will go and see to her as I may, shortly. I have delayed only to show you this, which I found among the  _ ter’angreal _ and other things of the Power the High Nobles collected over the years.” She took something from her pouch and laid it on the table before her. It was a disc the size of a man’s hand, seemingly made of two teardrops fitted together, one black as pitch, the other white as snow.

Mat frowned. It was just like the disk that Sammael had wanted to buy from Bayle. A vague half-memory of seeing something like it before, but all in pieces, popped up in his burrowed brain, only to disappear again as quickly.

“One of the seven seals Lews Therin Kinslayer and the Hundred Companions put on the Dark One’s prison when they resealed it,” Elayne said, nodding as if confirming her own memory.

“More precisely,” Moiraine told her, “a focus point for one of the Seals. But in essence, you are correct. During the Breaking of the World they were scattered and hidden for safety; since the Trolloc Wars they have been lost in truth.” She sniffed. “I begin to sound like Verin.”

“That’s one of the Seals,” Mat choked. Just like the one they’d given to Sammael ...  _ Oh burn me, as if I don’t get enough abuse!  _ Well, there was no need to tell them about that.

“And this one is unbroken,” Nynaeve said. “Unlike the one under the Eye of the World, this seal is intact.”

Mat rolled his shoulders. He did not much like standing not twenty feet from that disc now that he knew what it was, no matter the value of  _ cuendillar _ , but ... “Your pardon?” he said.

They all turned to stare at him as if he were interrupting something important _ . Burn me! Break them out of a prison cell, and they glower as hard as the bloody Aes Sedai! Well, they did not thank me then, either, did they? _ Aloud, he said mildly, “You do not mind if I ask a question, do you? You have all been talking this Aes Sedai ... uh ... business, and no-one has bothered to tell me anything.”

“Mat?” Nynaeve said warningly, tugging her braid, but Moiraine said, in a calm only just touched with impatience, “What is it that you wish to know?”

“I want to know how all of this can be.” He meant to keep his tone soft, but despite himself he picked up intensity as he went along. “The Stone of Tear has fallen! The Prophecies said that would never happen till the People of the Dragon came. Does that mean we are the bloody People of the Dragon? You, me, Lan, and a few hundred bloody Aiel?” He had seen the Warder during the night; there had not seemed to be much edge between Lan and the Aiel as to who was the more deadly. As Rhuarc straightened to stare at him, he hastily added, “Uh, sorry, Rhuarc. Slip of the tongue.”

“Perhaps,” Moiraine said slowly. “I came to stop Be’lal from killing Rand. I did not expect to see the Stone of Tear fall. Perhaps we are. Prophecies are fulfilled as they are meant to be, not as we think they should be.”

_ Be’lal _ . Mat shivered. He had heard that name last night, and he did not like it any more in daylight. If he had known one of the Forsaken was loose—and inside the Stone—he would never have gone near the place. He glanced at Nynaeve and Elayne.  _ Well, I’d have come in like a bloody mouse, anyway, not thumping people left and right! _ Sandar had gone scurrying out of the Stone at daybreak; to take the news to Mother Guenna, he claimed, but Mat thought it was just to escape those stares from the women, who looked as if they had not yet quite decided what to do about him.

Rhuarc cleared his throat. “When a man wishes to become a clan chief, he must go to Rhuidean in the lands of the Jenn Aiel, the clan that is not.” He spoke slowly and frowned often at the red-fringed silk carpet under his soft boots, a man trying to explain what he did not want to explain at all. “Women who wish to become Wise Ones also make this journey, but their marking, if they are marked, is kept secret among themselves. The men who are chosen at Rhuidean, those who survive, return marked on the left arm. So.”

He pushed back the sleeves of his coat and shirt together to reveal his left forearm, the skin much paler than that of his hands and face. Etched into the skin as if part of it, wrapped twice around, marched the same gold-and-scarlet form as rippled on the banner above the Stone.

The Aiel let his sleeve fall with a sigh. “It is a name not spoken except among the clan chiefs and the Wise Ones. We are ...” He cleared his throat again, unable to say it here.

“The Aiel are the People of the Dragon.” Moiraine spoke quietly, but she sounded as close to startlement as Mat could remember ever hearing her. “That I did not know.”

“Well I guess we’re done here then,” Mat said, “We can all go on our way with no more worries.”

“How can you say that? Don’t you understand the Forsaken are loose? Not to mention the Black Ajah,” Nynaeve said grimly. “We took only Amico and Joiya here. Ten escaped—and I would like to know how!—and the Light alone knows how many others there are we do not know.”

“Yes,” Elayne said in a tone just as hard. “I may not be up to facing one of the Forsaken, but I mean to take pieces out of Liandrin’s hide!”

“Of course,” Mat said smoothly. “Of course.”  _ Are they crazy? They want to chase after the Black Ajah and the Forsaken? _ “I only meant the hardest part is done. The Stone has fallen to the People of the Dragon, Rand has  _ Callandor _ , and Forsaken are running scared.” Moiraine’s stare was so hard that he thought the Stone shook for a moment.

“Do not be a fool!” the Aes Sedai said in a voice like a knife. “You think this was the hard part? All that has happened before this was merely a stroll through the park. Now the true war begins.” She laid a hand atop the black-and-white disc on the table. “One of the Seals is broken. We know of one that still holds. It may be that this is the only one that remains to stand between the Dark One and the world, and it may be that even with this whole he can touch the world after a fashion. Whatever battle we won here—battle or skirmish—it is far from the last.”

Mat watched their faces firm—Nynaeve’s and Elayne’s; slowly, reluctantly, but determinedly, too—and shook his head.  _ Bloody women! They’re all ready to go on with this, go on chasing the Black Ajah, trying to fight the Forsaken and the bloody Dark One. Well, they needn’t think I am going to come pull them out of the soup pot again. They just needn’t think it, that’s all! _

One of the tall, paired doors pushed open while he was trying to think of something to say, and a tall young woman of regal bearing entered the room, wearing a coronet with a golden hawk in flight above her brows. Her black hair swept to shoulders, and her dress of the finest red silk left those shoulders bare, along with a considerable expanse of what Mat noted as an admirable bosom. For a moment she studied Rhuarc interestedly with large, dark eyes; then she turned them on the women at the table, coolly imperious. Mat she appeared to ignore completely.

“I am not used to being given messages to carry,” she announced, flourishing a folded parchment in one slim hand.

“And who are you, child?” Moiraine asked.

The young woman drew herself up even more, which Mat would have thought was impossible. “I am Berelain, First of Mayene.” She tossed the parchment down on the table in front of Moiraine with a haughty gesture and turned back to the door.

“A moment, child,” Moiraine said, unfolding the parchment. “Who gave this to you? And why did you bring it, if you are so unused to carrying messages?”

“I ... do not know.” Berelain stood facing the door; she sounded puzzled. “She was ... impressive.” She gave herself a shake and seemed to recover her opinion of herself. For a moment she studied Rhuarc with a small smile. “You are the leader of these Aielmen? Your fighting disturbed my sleep. Perhaps I will ask you to dine with me. One day quite soon.” She looked over her shoulder at Moiraine. “I am told the Dragon Reborn has taken the Stone. Inform the Lord Dragon that the First of Mayene will dine with him tonight.” And she marched out of the room; Mat could think of no other way to describe that stately, one-woman procession.

“I would like to have her in the Tower as a Novice,” Elayne said.

“Listen to this,” Moiraine said. “ ‘Lews Therin was mine, he is mine, and he will be mine forever. I give him into your charge, to keep for me until I come.’ It is signed ‘Lanfear.’ ” The Aes Sedai turned that cool gaze on Mat. “And you thought it was done? You are  _ ta’veren _ , Mat, a thread more crucial to the Pattern than most. Nothing is done for you, yet.”

They were all looking at him. Nynaeve sadly, Elayne as if she expected him to change into someone else. Rhuarc had a certain respect in his eyes, though Mat would just as soon have done without it, all things considered.

“Well, of course,” he told them.  _ Burn me! _ “I understand.” I _ wonder how soon Thom will be fit to travel? Time to run _ . “You can count on me.”

From outside, the cries still rose, unceasing. “The Dragon! Al’Thor! The Dragon! Al’Thor! The Dragon! Al’Thor! The Dragon!”


	35. Convergence

CHAPTER 32: Convergence

At first he was glad to see her, when Moiraine found him in the dungeon where Nynaeve and Elayne had been held. The Aes Sedai had often been a thorn in his side but she had saved him from Be’lal, and he was relieved to see her back on her feet. Besides, she provided a welcome distraction from the wicked tools he’d been examining, and the imaginings they conjured of all that Nynaeve wasn’t telling him. The Tairens who’d been dogging his heels had, on realising where he was going, made themselves scarce, leaving him alone with the stone-faced and uncommunicative Aiel. But despite how glad he’d been to see her, the longer she spoke, the more Rand’s jaw tightened.

“I never realised what a good sense of humour you have, Moiraine,” he said when she paused.

She ignored his barb, though Lan, standing at her side, gave Rand a warning look. “It is the obvious solution. You have a Talent for Dreaming, and you have the means to find her easily.”

He barked a laugh. “That’s not the point. Why would you ever imagine I’d go out of my way to help that woman? She can burn for all I care.”

“It would be most unwise to wish that. Warders rarely survive the death of their Aes Sedai.”

“Don’t call me that,” Rand said coldly.

“Do you find the title insulting, farmboy? Dishonourable?” Lan asked sharply.

He didn’t want to insult the man, but the truth was the truth. “To me? Yes. I didn’t choose it. I won’t answer to it. Besides. Warder’s serve the Aes Sedai. I am the Dragon Reborn. I serve no-one.”

Moiraine sniffed. “You are indeed the Dragon Reborn. I knew this long before you did. But what manner of man will the Dragon Reborn be? How will be rule those who choose to follow him?”

She paused, as though she genuinely thought him naive enough to answer those questions. When he held his silence, she went on.

“Will you let your emotions rule you, taking revenge for every slight? If so, you will quickly find that there are none who dare tell you the truth. Empty flattery will fill your days, while events of great import happen ever outside your view. Will you squander resources on whim and luxury, heedless of the needs to come? Better Be’lal had slain you then. It would spare us all a drawn out and hopeless struggle. A fully trained Aes Sedai lies dying, Rand al’Thor. Dragon Reborn. Here is a chance to show the White Tower, and the world, what manner of man you are. Are you friend, or foe?”

“What if I’m both?” he asked. She did not answer, just left him to chew on her words in silence.

He didn’t think Mat considered him a friend anymore. And just hoped he didn’t think him a foe. It had been even more surprising to find him here in the Stone than it had been to find Nynaeve. It had been a year since he’d seen him, and so much had happened, but Mat had had little to say when Rand approached him. A few shorts sentences and then a breezy excuse before he made his departure. There was an unspoken message in that. It hurt to hear it, but perhaps it was for the best. Mat would be better off far away from him. Everyone would.

It was not like there was anything he could do to convince him otherwise. There was  _ saidin _ to consider. And the Prophecies of the Dragon.  _ So ... So what? Should I just go ahead and smash everything? Embrace what I’m supposedly fated to be? Give up? Thereners don’t give up _ .

He hefted  _ Callandor _ and peered at the torturer’s tools through its clear blade. They twisted and blurred, but they did not change. That didn’t mean that they were unchangeable though.  _ Tomorrow I will order all of these to be taken to the nearest blacksmith and melted down. Let them be reforged into something useful. That’s a breaking of sorts, isn’t it? _

After a minute, Rand spoke again, albeit with reluctance. “Where is she now?”

“At an inn called The Star. I will take you there, as she cannot be moved,” said Moiraine, with cool certainty.

“The streets of this city are not safe,” Urien interrupted, the word “safe” sounding as awkward on his tongue as “streets” and “city”.

Rand didn’t doubt that he was right about that. “They won’t know me to see. Not yet. A hood and a plain coat should be all the disguise I need. And something to hide  _ Callandor _ in. I don’t dare leave it here.”

All of that was easily gathered, and the Stone proved much easier to leave than it had been to enter. The Defenders he passed looked to be too shocked by what had happened to challenge anyone, especially not a group of Aiel with an Aes Sedai, a Warder, and some hooded nobody strolling along in their midst.

Down a long, dark tunnel they walked, through gates and past yet more Defenders, until they exited onto the open clearing that separated the Stone of Tear from the city that had been named after it. The Tairens who crowded the streets beyond that clearing were quick to move out of the way of the veiled Aiel. They stared, true, but they stared from a safe distance. Those farther away didn’t notice; they were too busy shouting Rand’s name.

“Al’Thor! The Dragon! Al’Thor! The Dragon!”

He clenched his teeth, and wished there was some way to make them stop.

The inn she took him to was tall but he wouldn’t have fancied staying there. The nearby smithy didn’t exactly promise a restful stay. The man lounging in the doorway and trying to pretend he wasn’t watching the street was familiar, even without his plate and mail.  _ So they came as well _ .

“Is Perrin here? And Anna?” Rand asked quietly.

“Unfortunately not. They opted to stay in Emond’s Field, and I was too concerned by your rash departure to take the time to persuade them otherwise,” said Moiraine. She was watching him carefully, her dark eyes weighing everything she saw. “It may interest you to know that your father is here in the city. He was quite insistent on coming along.”

“Tam, too,” he breathed. His heart was racing. Those irritating shouts suddenly became threatening. As soon as someone realised that he and Tam were related, Tam would become a target.  _ I’ll need to get him inside the Stone. The Shienarans, too _ . But was even the Stone safe? The Tairens had knelt to him, but what was that worth really?

Nangu came to attention when he saw who the hooded man with Moiraine was. A low and hasty wave of Rand’s hand alerted him to the need for secrecy, and he relaxed his stance, but only slightly. Some of the Aiel fixed hostile eyes on the Shienaran, giving Rand cause to be thankful for Urien’s presence. Quiet words from him got the less familiar Aiel to lower their weapons.

Pausing in the doorway, Rand was suddenly lost for what to say. As much as he’d like to tell himself that he had good reasons for abandoning his armsmen back in the Waterwood, he was too honest for it. The brutal truth was he’d run away. Worse, he’d run away because he’d been frightened by the depth of his feelings for a girl, and the fear of what might happen to her because of them. He cringed inside when he thought of it, and lashed himself with his own thoughts.  _ Coward! And a cruel coward at that _ . What must Min have thought when she woke to find him gone? He’d hurt her. She probably hated him now. He doubted there was anything he could do to make it up to her. No apology could be grovelling enough to undo such unworthy and undeserved treatment.

He’d try though, if he ever saw her again. As pointless as it was to hope for forgiveness, he’d still have to do what he could to balance the scales with her.

And she wasn’t the only one he’d abandoned either. Yet, while Rand stood there wrestling with his thoughts, Nangu just spoke quietly. “It is good to have you back, my Lord Dragon.”

Rand’s throat suddenly felt a bit tight. “ _ Tai’shar _ Shienar,” he managed to say.

Several Aiel had already preceded him into the inn, and Moiraine now moved to join them. “This way. She is upstairs.”

Most of the rest of his Shienaran armsmen were in the inn’s common room, armed and armoured. They smiled when they saw him, even grizzled old Uno. Areku was there, relief lightening the stern planes of her face. Pale Izana was flushed with emotion, perhaps on account of the way blocky Katsui was slapping him on the back. Young Heita said something to Luci that made her laugh softly. There was no sign of Masema, but Rand didn’t worry about that. That one would probably have done something to spoil the moment.

Loial was there with them, but he spared only a brief moment to wave hello before snatching a notebook and pen from one of his copious pockets and scrambling to capture “the moment”.

Rand opened his mouth to ask if Saeri was there as well, but before he could speak she came charging out of the crowd at him with her arms open wide. He staggered under the impact of her body but managed to stay on his feet as she hugged him tight.

“There you are. I was worried,” she mumbled against his belly.

He rested his hand atop her head. “Sorry about that. I ... Ah, I needed to go take care of some business,” he said.

“Well that’s one way to describe capturing the greatest fortress in the world,” laughed Ragan.

Rand shrugged uncomfortably. “I didn’t do that. I just went to get the sword.”

“The attackers were still outnumbered almost ten to one when you did so,” Lan pointed out. “The Defenders gave up because they saw you with that sword.” He looked completely unconcerned by whether the Aiel surrounding him took offence or not.

“Enough of this,” Moiraine cut in, giving her Warder a stern look. “Time is of the essence. Come with me, Rand.”

Saeri came with him as he climbed the stairs after the Aes Sedai, with Lan, Uno, Urien and a dozen more Aiel at his back. He knew the room she was leading him to, because Ihvon sat on a plain chair outside it with his head in his hands. There was no blood on him, but Alanna’s Warder—her only real Warder, so far as Rand was concerned—looked to be nursing an injury of some kind. Or an illness, perhaps. He raised his head at the sound of their approaching footsteps, saw Rand, and grimaced.

“What are you doing here?” Ihvon said. He forced himself to his feet and put a hand on his swordhilt warningly.

Urien veiled so quickly that Rand barely saw his hands move.

“Stand down, Ihvon,” Moiraine said serenely. “Rand has agreed to help free Alanna from the trap she walked into. You should be grateful.”

Ihvon snorted softly. “Grateful,” said the man whom Rand had once buried up to his neck in dirt, while on his way to throttle the woman he’d sworn to protect.

Rand wasn’t sorry about that. And he didn’t want or need Ihvon’s gratitude. “I don’t plan to kill her,” he said. “Keep your sword where it is, and the Aiel won’t kill you.”

“Diplomacy is not your strongest talent, is it?” Moiraine sighed.

Before Rand could respond, a nearby door opened and a familiar faced popped out. “Is that Rand I hear? It is!” Merile’s smile nearly touched her ears. The naked joy in her big, green eyes made him feel sad.

“Merile. I thought you’d be off in Tar Valon by now,” he said, with a wan smile. She be safer there than here, that was for sure.

The little Tinker came the rest of the way out into the hall, trailed by another girl near enough her height. It took Rand a moment to recognise her, for all that he’d known her her whole life, and even when he did he stared with incredulity. “Imoen!? What in the Light are you doing here?”

“I figured you’d need all the help you could get, if you were going to beat the Shadow,” she said. “And who better to watch your back than me?”

Rand wanted to tell her that this wasn’t like the team snowball fights they’d had back home. Or the other games they’d played. This was serious. But his mind was too full of incredulity over the presence of so many familiar faces in this unfamiliar city to spare much room for scolding his self-appointed sidekick.

_ It’s so unnatural. Me, and Mat, and Nynaeve, and Moiraine, and Tam, and Urien and who knows how many others. All showing up here at the same time _ . He shuddered, feeling very small. A very small stone, to be precise, on a very big stones board.

“I can help, too,” Merile was saying. “I’m not going to Tar Valon, you see. Not after what I saw Alanna do. I’ll help you instead.”

He glanced at Moiraine in time to see her lips tighten briefly, but she soon restored her usual inscrutable expression. “Speaking of whom ...” She stepped over to the door Ihvon had been guarding and waited for Rand to join her.

Urien’s Aiel came with him, keeping a close eye on the hostile Warder. Rand left him to them, and went to look inside the room. Alanna was there, as expected. She was lying on the ground, fully clothed in rich green silks, her dark hair covering her face. The bond she’d inflicted on him told him nothing of her condition. She was not in pain. She wasn’t much of anything in fact. Rand didn’t know if that was natural, and was too stubborn to ask Ihvon.

“You can see the  _ ter’angreal _ that entrapped her lying by her hand. Anyone who enters the room now will be entrapped in the same manner,” Moiraine said. “Which presents a challenge when it comes to waking her.”

“So you want me to go into the dreamworld—”

“ _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ .”

“Into  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ and free her somehow. Do you have any idea of how exactly I would do that? Or am I just supposed to fumble around and hope for the best?”

“That is what you usually do, is it not? Your fumbling has led to disaster at times, it is true, but there have been some few successes mixed in as well.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Rand muttered. As little as he liked hearing it, she wasn’t wrong. He was working in the dark with  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ as much as he was with  _ saidin _ . But what other choice did he have? He sighed. “Well the first thing I’ll need to do is go to sleep. Are the rooms next door occupied?”

“That one’s mine,” Saeri piped. “You can sleep there, my lord. It’s nice and clean. I mean, it doth be as cleanly as could be wished.”

“I’m sure it will be fine. I just need somewhere to get comfortable.”

Saeri ran ahead of him to open the door and wave him inside. Merile and Imoen came along as well, obviously friendly enough with Saeri that they thought nothing of making themselves comfortable in her room. Moiraine and the fighters stayed outside.

“I will monitor the situation from here. Should the weaving be dispelled, I will wake you,” the Aes Sedai said before closing the door.

The wrapped bundle that contained  _ Callandor _ he set on the floor and kicked under the bed as he took a seat on the feather mattress.

“It’s good to see you all again, but I can’t help but think you’d be better off elsewhere. You aren’t safe here.”

“Isn’t the Dark One trying to take over the whole world?” said Imoen. “I don’t think we’d be safe anywhere. At least here we can help you stop him.”

That made sense, he supposed. But there were shades of danger, and being near him was one of the darkest. Or maybe, he was forced to admit, he was just terrified of the thought of seeing someone he cared about being hurt because of him. Or by him.

“Are you okay, Rand? You look tired,” Merile said. “Is it because of the city? It’s huge, isn’t it? I didn’t think it would be so ... so ... I’ve never seen so many people in one place before. It seems so lonely. My whole caravan could camp in here and you’d never even find them!”

“But at least now you doth hath a fortress worthy of you, my lord,” Saeri said.

Rand smiled wryly. “Cut that out, you. No more flattery.”

“’Tis not flattery! ‘Tis truth!”

He shed his cloak and coat and lay back on the bed. “To answer your question, Merile, yes. I am tired. I haven’t slept all night.”  _ Which will help with this last, unwelcome task _ , he thought, and let his eyes drift shut.

“Oh. You won’t need me to help you sleep then,” she said disappointedly. The bed shifted, and he felt a hand touch his thigh. He cracked open one eye and found Merile pouting down at him. Her meaning was hard to miss. Even Saeri, wrong-headed as she could be, couldn’t fail to catch on to that, but when he looked her way she just smiled.

“Merile and I have been talking,” she said, and came to sit on the bed near his shoulder. “About you.”

Rand felt the need to justify himself. “I never lied to you. I never promised fidelity.”

“We know. I’m just glad you have good taste,” Merile said.

“Oh shush,” Saeri giggled.

“I was just thinking that there’s a sure-fire way to knock you out. And I bet we could do it really quickly, too.”

He looked from Merile’s smiling face to Saeri’s, and saw no condemnation there, only acceptance. Well, what else was he going to do? “I certainly won’t stop you ...”

Merile laughed happily and began undoing his belt while Saeri tugged up his shirt.

“Ah, Imoen? You might want to go get something to eat. There are things you won’t want to see. Adult things, most would call them.”

The Theren girl had stood in silence while they spoke, a slight frown on her brow and her lips parted. Her cheeks coloured when he addressed her. “I know what you’re doing,” she insisted, with what he was sure was braggadocio. “I’m as old as Saeri.”

He closed his eyes again. There was so little shyness left in him now. “Well I’m certainly not going to kick you out, not after you came all this way. I’m just saying, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t want anyone to ever be able to make you do anything. You’ve got far too much spirit for that.”

Rand relaxed on the bed while his girls undressed him. The exaggerated care with which they did so, and the gentleness of their touches, soon had his manhood stirring. When they rid him of his smallclothes, he heard a gasp from farther away, and knew that Imoen had not left as he’d advised. He wondered vaguely if he should have made her. He certainly didn’t mind her watching, but he knew that many others would have. There were a lot of things that others thought good and proper that he didn’t care about, and in some cases outright disliked, come to think of it.

His musing was cut short by the first touch of a girl’s lips upon his hardening cock and the thrill of pleasure that sent through his lax body. She kissed him there while her soft hands caressed his stones so carefully. Another pair of lips soon joined the first, kissing up the other side of his shaft. A brief peek downwards showed him the black-haired heads of Merile and Saeri. They were lying on either side of him, cuddled against his legs, their faces level with his crotch. Merile began licking him, while Saeri ducked her head a bit lower and took one of his balls into her mouth to suck on. With a blissful sigh, Rand let himself relax.

As pleasurable as their ministrations were, he knew he shouldn’t try to prolong things. There was, after all, a method to this madness. Merile’s tongue travelled all the way up his shaft, leaving a wet trail behind it and space for her hand to close around him. When she reached his bulbous head, he felt her close her mouth around it and engulf him in her warm wetness. She stroked him insistently as she sucked and licked all over the head of his cock. Saeri, too, sought to pleasure him with her tongue, while her free hands roved over his flesh.

“That’s good. That’s wonderful,” he breathed. With their mouths so full, neither girl responded.

Subjected to such sweet attentions, it wasn’t long before Rand felt an orgasm building. He twitched helplessly in their hands and mouths, and his muscles tensed in anticipation of the hard pleasure to come. It did indeed come, as did he, spilling his hot seed in Merile’s willing mouth. He let out a long sigh and heard Saeri giggling. Even while a last few, weaker spurts were giving Merile something to swallow, Rand felt his eyes growing heavy. He didn’t fight it, just let sleep take him while he thought of the dreamworld he’d often both dreaded and sought.

He woke there. Woke and yet knew he was asleep. It was a bizarre feeling. Often before, he’d found himself confused as to what was a normal dream and what was the World of Dreams, but this time he knew right away where he was.

Looking around, he saw that he was standing atop the Stone of Tear, near the very battlements that he’d hauled himself over at the end of last night’s climb. The door that he’d destroyed to get inside was intact now. Or intact here, more accurately. He doubted anyone had had time to fix it in the real world.  _ So why isn’t it destroyed here?  _ he wondered. As with much else concerning this  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ , Rand had no answers. He was wearing his favourite red and gold coat, the one he’d left back in the Theren with the rest of his possessions. He hadn’t thought to ask Saeri if she’d brought them with her, but he hoped she had. The sun blazed above him, but the oppressive heat that he should have felt was nowhere in evidence. From the tallest part of the Stone flew the banner of Lews Therin Telamon. That part of last night’s events was reflected here, even if the rest was not.

_ Alanna _ , he told himself.  _ I’m supposed to be freeing Alanna. Little as she deserves it _ .

He frowned out over the city, and shook his head over its emptiness. That was perhaps the weirdest part of it all, seeing a city of Tear’s size, full of houses and shops and warehouses, all in good repair, yet utterly devoid of human life. It was even worse than Shadar Logoth had been, for at least those cursed ruins had looked like what they were: ruins.  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ ’s Tear looked as though it had been full of people mere moments ago, and begged the question of what had become of them all.

_ The Dark One took them _ , he found himself thinking, and shivered.  _ No. Focus! Alanna _ .

The bond she’d forced on him was not as intense as it had been back in Emond’s Field. Whether that was normal or a result of her present condition, Rand could not say. That didn’t matter though. He didn’t need it to tell where she was. He closed his eyes and pictured the inn he’d fallen asleep in. When he opened them again, he was standing in the empty street outside it.

“Well. I’m learning, at least. That’s something,” he muttered as he let himself inside and made for the stairs.

The halls and rooms of the inn were as empty as the streets outside. Rand had expected that. What he hadn’t expected was to find the room that he’d seen Alanna lying in to be every bit as empty as the others. He’d been hoping that it would be enough to just drag her out of the range of that hedgehog thing. Nice and easy. As if. He looked about, wondering if he’d gotten the wrong room, but the chair Ihvon had been sitting on was right where it should be. There was just no sign of Alanna.

He sighed.  _ Now what? _

For lack of anything else to do, as much as to satisfy a sudden curiosity, he went and opened the door to the room that his body was currently resting in. The room and the bed within it were empty. Rand couldn’t help but shiver.

“Hopefully I’ll still be there when I wake up. Hopefully Merile and Saeri will be there, too.” He had unfinished business with those two. One good turn deserved another.

So. How to finish the unwelcome task so he could get back to the welcome one? Perhaps the bond could help. It still felt faint, but when he concentrated on it he almost felt something pulling, or pushing. Not at him, but at something else. It made no sense. And yet, whether pushed or pulled, there was direction involved. A line from start to finish. And if this was one of those then ...

Reaching out with thought and hand, he tried to grasp that imaginary line. He hadn’t truly believed it would work, but suddenly he felt as though he’d fallen into a fast-flowing river, one with no water. He was swept away from the inn, the world around him blurring into nothingness with the speed of his movement.

The journey ended as abruptly as it had begun. His head swam with the sudden change in motion, and he staggered a few steps before finding his balance. Looking around, he found himself standing on an unfamiliar farmstead. Sheep grazed in the fields, and from the looks of things they’d already cropped the grass down almost to its roots, for all the smallness of their pen. There was a tidy farmstead nearby, with a peaked thatch roof and walls of unpainted wooden planks. A pair of wide stone steps led up to the lone door, through which he could hear raised voices.

_ Wait. Sheep? And voices? _ He hadn’t seen any animals in  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ during his recent visits. And he hadn’t heard a single human voice in Tear.

“You can pick berries, can’t you? Even a goat can do that much,” a woman’s voice shouted in a familiar accent.

“W-where would I f-f-find them?” a little girl stammered.

“Oh, burn me! You really are useless.”

“I’ll do it. If y-you’d just tell me how!” the girl pleaded.

“Doesn’t even know how to pick berries,” he heard someone scoff.

“At least if she goes looking she won’t be underfoot all the time. We might get some work done,” another muttered. “And if she’s not back by suppertime, then there might be more for us.”

They were boys from the sound of it, or young men. And Coplin-mean.

“Oh for the Light’s sake! Is she crying again?” called a man’s rough voice. “All day working and I have to come home to this. Scraps on the table and an ungrateful brat whining for more!”

“Well don’t blame me for it!” said the first voice. His wife, Rand suspected.

“I didn’t want more!” the girl cried.

“Stop your shouting!” the woman shouted. “I am just about sick of you. Can’t you at least find something useful to do, like your brothers? Or are you just going to sit around and eat me out of house and home?”

“If you’re going throw another tantrum, Alanna, then do it outside. I’m not in the mood,” said the farmer.

The door to the farmhouse opened, not with a bang but with a timid creak. A skinny little girl with her hair in pigtails slunk out. Her grey dress was too small for her, and ragged at the hem. There were tears on her cheeks, and her eyes were firmly fixed on the ground as she shuffled away. Inside, a stocky and visibly pregnant woman with sunken eyes was presiding over a small kitchen table around which sat two boys and a man, all three of whom had the weathered faces of those who worked outdoors. Like the weeping girl, they were almost dark enough of skin to be taken for Sea Folk. There didn’t look to be much room in the house, and the furnishings he saw were worn with age and use. They were not rich, this family. Rand searched his memory for a name. Her family name. Mosvani.

“What is this?”

The girl they’d called Alanna walked right past him. She didn’t look up, and she didn’t respond to the sound of his voice.

Rand folded his arms and scowled up at the grey sky. “Fuck you,” he blurted, not sure who he was even talking to. “I won’t feel sorry for her.”

Even without looking her way, he could tell that the girl was getting further away from him. The bond made sure of that. With great reluctance, Rand went after her. The first step was the hardest; after that he lengthened his stride, determined to get it over with quickly.

“Mosvani!” She didn’t stop. “Alanna.” She didn’t look over. “Snap out of it. This isn’t real. You’re dreaming.” Still no response. Growling wordlessly, he set his hand on her shoulder and felt her jump.

“W-who’s there? Papa, help!” She looked at him then, finally seeing him, and screamed.

“Stop that. I’m here to help,” he said gruffly. He knew it was her, the Aes Sedai who’d forced her way into his mind. Just her. But she looked and sounded like a scared little girl, no more than eight years old. Even knowing the truth, it was impossible to be screamed at by a scared little girl and not feel like some kind of monster. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The scream trailed off. When he looked back at the farmhouse, he saw the Mosvani family still at their meal. They either hadn’t heard or didn’t care.

“Why not?” Alanna asked.

“I ... What?”

“Why won’t you hurt me? I deserve it. I’m useless. Even my mother hates me,” she said in a small voice.

Rand’s mouth worked soundlessly.  _ Light’s sake! Don’t ask this of me. Get someone else _ . It took him a while to work up the resolve to speak, and even then he did so with great reluctance. “I ... This isn’t real. This is just a dream. You’re in the World of Dreams, strange things happen here. Is this even what they were really like?” She just looked confused by his words. “You don’t remember who you are, do you?”

“I’m Alanna. I’m a worthless girl. I eat too much and do too little,” she said, her voice empty of belief yet full of certainty.

“I’m sure your mother didn’t really hate you,” he sighed. “And even if she did, you ...”  _ Deserved it. No _ . “Well, that fault is hers, not yours. No child deserves to be hated.”

The little girl’s chin wobbled soundlessly.

He touched her shoulder again, and this time she didn’t scream. “Look. This isn’t really happening. Not right now, at least. You’re a grown woman. You’re asleep on the floor of an inn. I’m just here to help you wake up. Come with me, okay?”

“But I have to find the berries. They’re here somewhere. I’ve searched and searched, but I’ll find them someday.”

He hesitated to say it, for reasons he couldn’t explain, but the response was obvious. “Would you like me to help you find them?”

The child Alanna smiled shyly. “You would do that?”

“Sure. Take my hand,” Rand said. He offered it to her, along with what he was sure had to be the most twisted mockery of a smile that anyone had ever seen.

She didn’t notice that though, she just put her hand in his and let him lead her off across the pasture. She skipped along at his side as they headed south, to Tear.

Between one skip and the next, they were there, back in the hall outside the empty room, the one with a lone chair sitting outside. Alanna still wasn’t herself, but her smile had disappeared. In its place was a puzzled frown.

“I know this place. She was hoarding something here. Using it to look down on me. I ... I went ...”

“Inside. Yes, that makes sense,” Rand said, as much to himself as to her.

_ Adults are not the children they were. Adults can be hated _ , he told himself. He still felt a little bad about placing his hand between her skinny shoulders and giving her a hard shove through the door though. Alanna yelped girlishly as she fell forwards to land on her face on the hard wood floor.

There was a sharp crack, as of something breaking, and despite all that had happened, Rand hoped he hadn’t accidentally broken her nose. Such injuries, done in  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ , could affect the body of the person dreaming there, as he well knew.

But when Alanna spun around to face him, she was uninjured. “Why did—?”

There came a loud exhalation, but not of breath. It was as if a trapped wind had been freed to howl past them, yet there was no wind, just the feeling of something leaving, something breaking.

As one, Rand and Alanna’s eyes were drawn to the inn’s floor where, near one leg of the bedside table lay a wooden carving of a hedgehog, broken in half.

Before his very eyes, the girl that was Alanna began to change. Her face grew fuller, the cheeks and lips more sculpted. Her hair escaped its tails, becoming a thick, dark mane that fell loose around her shoulders and down her back. Her hips widened and her chest expanded, and the worn dress that had held her herness in check faded like morning mist. Her brown nipples swelled in harmony with the breasts they now tipped. Dark hair grew where none had been, while the dusky-skinned and now very naked woman stretched to her full, unremarkable, height.

“How ...? What happened to me?” she said. She blinked her eyes at him, and parted her lips in surprise. “Rand? Where did you come from?”

He tried not to look at her nakedness. Whatever else she was, she was a fine-looking woman. He didn’t like how much he liked looking at her, so he resolved not to. “You remember then?” he said, jaw clenched.

“Remember what? I ...” She touched her temple and frowned. “I was back at ... I was h-home, but you were there. You said you’d ...” Alanna started to get to her feet. Only then did she realise that she was naked. Dark cheeks darkening further, she slapped an arm across her chest and placed a hand in front of her sex. “What!? Where are my clothes? Did you do this?” Her eyes flickered between him and the empty bed. When they came to rest on his, they were very wide, but oddly free of heat. “What are you going to do?” she breathed.

“Nothing,” he said gruffly, still keeping his eyes from drifting downwards. “The Black Ajah trapped you here, in  _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ . Moiraine asked me to free you. Against my better judgement, I agreed to do it, so here we are. The  _ ter’angreal _ they used seems to be broken, so you should be free to wake up now.”

“ _ Tel’aran’rhiod _ . I recall Verin’s lectures on that topic. It seems so real. But it isn’t, is it? Here, I am in your power ...”

“All the more reason to wake up then,” he said firmly. “You’ll have to do that on your own. I don’t know how to make you.”

“I think you could make me, if you tried ...”

“I get what you are hinting at,” Rand growled. “It’s not going to happen.”

She looked taken aback. “No?”

“Of course not! Are you mad? After what you did to me? Put some clothes on and wake up.”

He felt her hurt through the bond she had forced on him. “B-but ... I ...”

Rand turned his back on the beautiful, naked, and willing Aes Sedai, and felt strangely proud of himself for doing it. “I said no. And I meant it,” he told her as he strode from the room.

He went back to the room he’d fallen asleep in, laid himself down on the bed, and closed his eyes. Now, how was he supposed to go about waking up when he was already sort of awake? Or his mind was, at least. Or should he perhaps try to fall asleep instead? Rand snorted softly to himself. Falling asleep while already asleep. What had his life come to?

He was still mulling it over when he felt silky hair brushing against his naked chest. Rand didn’t like hurting women, but he was quite willing to toss Alanna out bodily if he had to. Clenching his jaw in anger, he opened his eyes and looked down ...

But it was not Alanna’s face that he saw, just Saeri’s. She was lying against him with her eyes closed, her cheek resting above his heart and a small smile on her lips. Merile lay at his other side, watching her own feet sway in time to a tune that drifted up from the common room.

“Aren’t you embarrassed though?” Imoen whispered from somewhere nearby. “The Women’s Circle doesn’t have anything good to say about people who chase after other people’s husbands. Or wives.”

“The leaf falls where it falls. Wives and husbands, too,” Merile said cheerily. “Besides, we aren’t even married.”

“That’s even worse! I mean, that’s what my mother would say, anyway. I don’t care. Really! I don’t care what anyone says. They will say stuff though. They’ll make fun of you. It’ll be all, ‘That Merile, she couldn’t get a man of her own; she had to share one with a bunch of other women. What a loser.’ Stuff like that.”

He felt Merile nod. “Folk are always saying mean things about the  _ Tuatha’an _ . You mustn’t let it upset you, that’s what my mother always said.”

“I think I may better understand what thou art saying, friend Imoen,” Saeri whispered, in her overly flowery manner. “But the choice is quite an easy one for me. Even if a rival suitor did present himself, it would still be easy. For he would be but a normal man, competing against a hero. A true Hero, a legend reborn in flesh. I would sooner share my Lord’s glory with a hundred other lovers, than settle for the bland comforts of a lesser man’s embrace. Let the spinsters and the housewives whisper behind their hands all they please. Only death will part me from my Lord Dragon’s side.”

“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Rand said.

“Thou art awake! And dropping eaves,” Saeri said. Despite her effusive praise of a moment ago, her lips twisted into a little moue.

“You rescued Alanna then?” asked Merile.

“I think so ...” He focused his attention on the room next door, trying to hear what, if anything, was going on there. Moiraine’s cool voice could just about be heard, but not the words she was speaking. Alanna’s louder one was distinct though. The bond between them felt stronger now. Rand grimaced at that realisation, and couldn’t help but feel he’d stabbed himself in the foot by freeing her. She was angry. Outraged and offended by his rejection. Underneath that he could feel her hurt and self-loathing, which he hadn’t noticed before. It was not a welcome realisation. “She’s fine, Shadow take her,” he muttered.

“I knew you would,” Saeri nodded.

“That’s sweet of you to say,” he said softly. “I couldn’t have done it without your help though. I feel like I owe the both of you a favour ...”

“Thou could never be in my debt, for—” she began, but Merile spoke over her enthusiastically.

“I’d like a good favouring! You should favour me right now!”

Laughing low, he pulled her in and tasted her sweet lips.

Surprise spiked in Alanna. Curiosity, creeping offense. Writhing jealousy. Rand crushed the impulse to stop. She was the intruder here. He’d be burned before he changed his behaviour one whit for her. Let her spy if she wanted. If it made her jealous, then good! It just motivated him to enjoy himself all the more.

He turned from Merile to Saeri, and shared a kiss with her as well, while in the next room, Alanna frowned confusedly.

Merile sat up and began undoing the ties on her worn travelling dress. While he helped Saeri do the same with hers, Rand glanced over at the third girl in the room. Mat and Bode’s little cousin, Imoen, who’d so often tagged along in their games when they were all younger. She’d been a pretty child with a ready smile, and had become a pretty young woman now, though her brown hair was still unbraided and her smile nowhere in evidence. She sat on the floor by the bedside table, wide-eyed and cross-legged, watching them all. He was a bit surprised she hadn’t left when Merile and Saeri were, ah, helping him get to sleep, or that she wasn’t making a beeline for the exit now.

“Would you mind locking the door, Imoen?” he said. “Before or behind you, as you wish. Though I have to warn you, this is not a room that innocent eyes will want to be in. I don’t mind, of course. We’re friends. I’m just saying, you’re parents would definitely not approve.”

For the first time he could ever recall, she had difficulty meeting his eyes. “I don’t flaming care what those goat-kissers think,” she said. Rand smelled Uno’s influence. Or Mat’s perhaps. He watched her climb to her feet and go to the door, wondering how far she’d take this rebellion of hers.  _ To a strange new nation _ , was the obvious answer. She latched the door and turned around to lean against it.  _ And beyond _ .

Merile lowered her dress to her hips, before standing up to let it fall the rest of the way down. Rand got a good view of her pretty bottom and was duly inspired, but he couldn’t help but notice that Imoen was getting an equally good view of Merile’s front. They’d been quite friendly back in Emond’s Field, and seemed even more so now, but Imoen’s cheeks reddened and her mouth fell open as she stared at the sights before her. The Tinker either didn’t notice or didn’t mind—it was hard to tell with her at times—she just hummed to herself as she continued to undress.

Saeri hadn’t followed suit, preferring to wait for Rand to undress her. He planted a brief kiss on her lips before hastening to do so, baring her pretty little breasts and slender body to his eager touch. She shifted around on the bed, rising first to her knees to let him rid her of her smallclothes, and then sitting in his lap and stretching out her pretty legs, inviting the removal of her long stockings. Naked as the day she was born, Saeri wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

Conscious of his other lover’s presence, and not wanting to neglect her, Rand made Saeri stop by the simplest means. He found her soft folds with his hand and began teasing her, leaving her too busy moaning softly to do much in the way of kissing.

Merile smiled when his eyes met hers. She was naked by then, too, and climbed onto the bed to claim a kiss of her own. Her legs were slightly parted, inviting the touch of his other hand. Rand would never have dreamt to turning down such an invitation.

He shared kisses between the two girls as he stirred their bodies to readiness, savouring the encouraging sounds they made and the way their soft skin brushed against his. Fully lost in that moment, he forgot about Alanna and her bond, about the shouting strangers in the streets outside, and the fallen fortress looming over them all. He forgot about everything except the sweet and wonderful girls who shared his bed.

His manhood was engorged with desire when he finally disentangled himself from them and rose up to kneel on the bed. Imoen was still there, still staring, but he could spare only a moment to notice that. Merile scooted over to lie in the middle of the bed, and opened her legs eagerly, showing him her glistening, lightly furred pussy.

“Beautiful,” he breathed as he looked down at her, and won himself a dazzling smile.

“You both are,” he added, looking at the now kneeling Saeri. For all that she was far from shy about speaking in public, she waited demurely at their sides rather than invite herself to join in. That wouldn’t do. He took her by the hand and tugged her over. She didn’t resist at all, just let him position her as he pleased.

It pleased Rand to place her above Merile, their thighs touching and their legs well spread, their clefts aligned, ready and waiting for him to taste them. The rosy-cheeked girls giggled as he guided them to lie chest to chest, but neither of them objected. Once satisfied by the glorious sight before him, Rand moved up and took his hard cock in hand.

Two sets of big, beautiful eyes stared up at him. Emerald greens and the cobalt blues filled with excited uncertainty. Neither could know what—or who—he meant to do.

As it happened, it was Merile whose eyes rolled back in her head first, when he stretched her sweet pussy and slid inside her, moving slowly but going deep. Her arms clutched at Saeri’s back instinctively, crushing the younger girl against her as she let out a long moan of satisfaction.

He slid himself out of her wet and wondrous pussy just as slowly. All the way out. Moving himself up a bit, he aimed himself towards the other girl’s sex and then gave her the same treatment. Saeri whimpered when she felt herself being penetrated, and returned Merile’s embrace.

“Light ...” he heard Imoen whisper.

The hand he put on her soft little bottom steadied him as much as it pleased him, as he slowly pulled himself out of Saeri’s pussy and moved back to Merile’s. Again and again he penetrated the two girls, each slow thrust of his hips earning him one of those flattering moans.

Though they clung to each other, and their breasts rubbed together, it was some time before their lips touched. He wasn’t sure if either of them had ever kissed another girl before, or if their friendship simply hadn’t moved in such a direction, but their eyes met for a long moment before Saeri leaned down to plant a light peck on Merile’s lips.

“Oohh, that’s nice. Do it again,” the Tinker said. Giggling, Saeri complied, less hesitantly this time. Their kisses soon deepened and their hands tangled in each other’s dark locks.

Rand had paused his even thrusting, both to avoid spoiling their moment and so he could enjoy seeing them enjoy each other. But on seeing them kissing so ardently, he couldn’t help but resume his feast, and with a rising hunger now.

The girls cuddled and kissed and caressed each other between their sharp gasps as he fucked them both in earnest. The pleasure their tight young bodies gifted him threatened to drive all thought from his mind, but his commitment to fairness kept him on the right path, alternating strokes between them, never neglecting one in favour of the other. He’d keep doing it until one or the other came.

And he did. As it happened, it was Saeri whose pleasure burst forth first. He felt her trembling, saw her bite her lip and toss her raven hair back and forth, poised on the brink of completion, and knew that the time for slow sharing was past. Instead of moving to Merile, he gave Saeri a quick, hard fucking, enough to shove her over the edge and make her scream out his name. Merile grinned when the other girl, insensate with pleasure, collapsed twitching atop her and began making soft, nonsensical sounds.

“Aw, that’s so cute,” she said. “Do me next.”

“Yes. Ravage her, my lord,” Saeri managed to mumble.

Rand needed no further urging. Far from it. He just hoped he could last long enough to put a similar, satisfied smile on Merile’s lovely face. Sliding out of Saeri’s dripping pussy, he found and entered Merile’s, looking her straight in the eyes as he did. And such eyes they were, flawlessly green and bright with life. He couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of looking at them. They shone up at him with acceptance and what he didn’t dare believe could be love.

He was overcome with the need to kiss her, so he did, careless of poor Saeri, sandwiched between them. He explored Merile’s sweet mouth with his tongue as he fucked her tight little pussy lustily. He knew he should try to make her come first. He always made it his goal to do that. But she was so ... so  _ her _ , and he needed to feel even the illusion of love.

With his cock pumping selfishly in and out of her, it was only through glad luck that Merile began shaking her hips and bucking up against the weight of the two people atop her. He was more than glad of her climax, for not only did it spare him the guilt of having failed her, but the feel of her pussy spasming around him pushed him over the edge and wrung from his body an orgasm of such intensity that he went temporarily blind.

“Light have mercy,” he gritted as his seed filled Merile to overflowing. He wasn’t sure how long it went on for, but when the last drops had been milked from him, he barely had enough presence of mind left to make himself fall to the side rather than atop them both.

Rand sprawled on the bed with his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath.

“That was incredible,” Merile sighed.

“’Twas.”

“What happens now? Are we ... what did this mean?”

“I dunno. We’re lovers, too, now I guess. I mean, we were already sharing Rand. Now we can share each other.”

“That makes sense.” Merile laughed suddenly. “I wonder what will happen in the future ...”

“You could be one of Rand’s maids,” Saeri said, misunderstanding her. “‘Tis more work than is reckoned, keeping his royal house in order. Luci and I can’t do it alone.”

“Ah, that’s why you need me! Oh! We could get matching outfits!”

“All maids have matching outfits.”

“But ours will be the matching-est!”

“Rand?”

The voice that interrupted them was well known to him, but he was still surprised to hear it. When he opened his eyes, he found Imoen standing over him. Her face was very flushed. Her eyes wet with emotion. As shameless as he had come to think himself, he still blushed when, with his mind temporarily cleansed of lust, he realised that he was lying there naked in front of a girl he’d known since childhood, his softening cock resting heavy on his belly, still coated in the juices of two other girls.

He reached to cover himself, but Imoen caught his hand with hers.

“I feel so strange,” she confessed. “I ...  _ need _ .”

“What do you need?” he asked after a pregnant pause.

“W-what ... what they got ...”

Saeri and Merile exchanged looks. “I thought so,” the younger girl whispered. “She’s much too devoted for a girl who isn’t nursing a crush.”

Imoen’s face reddened even more, but she did not look away, or deny Saeri’s claim. It had honestly never occurred to Rand that she regarded him in such a way. He’d just thought of her as a surrogate little sister. That didn’t mean he was bind to her many qualities, of course, just that he would never have pursued her. If she wanted to be pursued though ...

“You always brightened my day, Imoen. I can’t imagine ever not wanting your company. In any way you wanted ... Are you sure this is it? You could do so much better,” he said softly.

Her response was to swallow noisily, pull his hand up and press it to her young breast and whisper, “Please.”

He could feel her heart hammering. Rand smiled. “Gladly.” He wrapped his arm around her slender hips and guided her down. She went willingly, kneeing beside the bed and bringing her mouth to his. It was no timid, experimental peck, such as Saeri had given Merile. Imoen dove right in, open mouthed. Her eagerness was flattering.

The way she banged their teeth together hurt a bit though.

“S-sorry.”

He smiled, and took her face between his hands. “Don’t be.” Holding her gently but firmly, he took charge of the situation, bringing her lips to his and caressing them lovingly. She was trembling by the time he was done. “Do you want to stop?”

“Never,” she said. Then she yanked her dress up over her head. She wore no shift underneath just a pair of drawers the buttons of which she struggled to undo with her shaking fingers. Her small breasts jiggled attractively, their stiff nipples waving hello. She finally managed to undo her drawers and pushed them down her legs, revealing herself fully to their eyes. Her inner thighs, and the hairless pussy at their peak, shone with the evidence of how much she had enjoyed watching them.

“You’re so pretty, Imoen. I could just eat you up,” Merile said with a smile.

“I’m not as pretty as you, but thanks,” Imoen responded, biting her lip.

“There’s no ranking such things,” Rand said firmly. “I never do, and I wish others wouldn’t. And Merile’s right. You are a beautiful girl.”

He held out his arms, and she came to him eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck just as Saeri had done. Her kisses were more careful this time, but no less ardent. She didn’t stop even when he grasped her by the hips and lifted her into his lap, but she did spread her legs, straddling him.

Though he’d already come twice in relatively quick succession, the situation was so exciting that Rand soon felt himself stiffening against Imoen’s nubile body. She gasped and sat up.

“Inside me. That has to go inside, like ...” Her eyes slid over to Saeri and Merile, who were watching her with interest.

“Wouldst thou like us to help?” Saeri asked.

“I can ... I ... All of you?”

Rand laughed. “Between the three of us, I think we can make absolutely certain you enjoy this.”

She mumbled feeble protests as the girls pounced on her, but made no effort to push them away. Rand lay back and watched as their hands caressed Imoen’s breasts, brushed through her brown hair, traced the curve of her body from her ribs to her knees, and dared to explore her hidden depths. She cried out in joy when Merile’s finger found her sex, arching her back in a way that fairly demanded that Rand squeeze her breasts. So that was what he did, winning more moans of pleasure.

“If you think that’s good, try this,” Saeri said. She took hold of Rand’s cock and held it steady for Imoen. “Just put your hole at the top, and then sit down on it nice and slow.”

Sweating, breathing heavily, and flushed with excitement, Imoen did as she urged. He twitched in anticipation when she touched the pink lips of her pussy to the head of his cock. She giggled at the sensation, then bit her lip to silence herself as she concentrated intently on lining them up just right. Down she went, slowly discovering him, and herself, breathing heavily and letting out light little moans as she went. As much as he enjoyed the feel of her virgin pussy stretching around him, he found the play of expressions across her face even more enchanting. Though she winced occasionally, she didn’t look to be in as much pain as he’d anticipated. The shocked discovery of pleasure was predominant.

“Oh, Light. Light that feels so good ... AH ... AH ... Rand! It’s wonderful!”

“For me as well. I’m glad you like it,” he said, sitting up. He kissed her then, the girl who’d given him her virginity, and reached to pull his other lovers into their embrace. At her shoulders they knelt. Their hands explored her body, their lips touched her cheeks and the sides of her neck, their hot breath tickled her flesh. Imoen was surrounded by their arms and bodies, prisoner to the pleasure they gave her, robbed of words as she gyrating in Rand’s lap. Even when Rand dared to reach down and slide a finger into her tight little bottom, she couldn’t find words, she just knelt there with her head thrown back, pink-cheeked and moaning. And coming, he realised, coming for perhaps the first time in her life. He kissed her lightly from her chin, to her lips, to the bridge of her nose and finally right on the centre of her forehead as she rode out her orgasm, clutching him with her hands as much as with her pussy and her bum. The finger he’d slid up there he removed again when she was done, before she could embarrass them by both by saying anything.

“Was it everything you imagined?” Saeri asked, while Merile just giggled over the display she’d made.

“No,” Imoen groaned. “It was better.”

Rand hugged her to him. “Good. There’s nothing too good for my Imoen.”

Happy laughter was his reward. And a much better reward it was than anything the Aes Sedai might have given him. He was reminded then of the questions Moiraine had asked. She’d wanted to know what kind of ruler he’d be, what standards he’d set for himself. He wasn’t sure of all his answers yet, but he knew one thing: he was done pretending to be something he wasn’t. The whole world would now know that he was the one, true Dragon Reborn. Let them know, too, of those who shared his bed. Both the numbers and the variety. He would not hide it from them. He would not limit himself in any way for fear of their censure. That he would be hated was inevitable. Destiny. Let them hate, scoff and sneer. It would never change the fact that they needed him. It would never stop him from doing what he judged best for them.

There were still voices to be heard outside the bedroom, and he wondered briefly how much of the girls’ sweet moans had drifted through the walls to those loitering ears. Alanna was still nearby, too. Incredulity and sexual frustration had been mixed into her emotional broth since last he’d noticed her existence. None of that mattered.

Rand wrapped the newly deflowered girl in his arms. “Are you too tired to go on?” he asked. “Because I seem to remember promising you a first time to remember.”

Her eyes went wide. “It already was.”

“Poor, sweet, naive girl. You haven’t seen anything yet,” he teased.

He smothered her incredulous laugh with his lips, and pulled the other two into his embrace. Between them, they took Imoen to the peak over and over that day, and each time she fell screaming from that peak, she fell into their welcoming arms.


	36. Chapter 36

And it was written that no hand but his should wield the Sword held in the Stone, but he did draw it out, like fire in his hand, and his glory did burn the world. Thus did it begin. Thus do we sing his Rebirth. Thus do we sing the beginning. 

— from  _ Do’in Toldara te, Songs of the Last Age _ , Quarto Nine: The Legend of the Dragon. Composed by Boanne, Songmistress at Taralan, the Eleventh Age.

The End

of the Fifth Book of

The Wheel Turns Anew


End file.
